


Double Talkin' Jive (Don't Know Why)

by IncorrectWifi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Attempt at Humor, Don't Challenge Reinhardt, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Help, Hijinks, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I just wanted a Roadhog that wasn't gross, Jesse McCree can't cook, Junkrat blowing everything up really, Junkrat blowing things up, Light Angst, Roadhog -centric, Slice of Life, Some Plot, Somewhat Unreliable Narrator, mission stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncorrectWifi/pseuds/IncorrectWifi
Summary: Five times the members of Overwatch came to Roadhog for help and one time Roadhog reached out-or-Somehow, Roadhog became the go-to guy for teammates with problems. He is not okay with this.Tags will be updated as it the story progresses. Rated T for Junkrat & language. This is mainly fueled by late night hysteria. Please read at your own risk.





	1. McCree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree wants some help with dinner.

Mako was not by nature a patient man. Back in the day, he’d rather spend his time out in the bush with a rifle than sitting in a boat with a fishing pole for an afternoon. When he sat still for so long it’d just irk him, the lack of movement suspicious. There was always something he could be doing instead of sitting and waiting for something that might not even happen. Because of this irritability of his, Mako’s roof was never leaky for more than an hour, even when he had to pull out his rain slicker in the middle of a storm to get it done. His fridge was always overflowing with fresh kills and his fur collection grew with each hunting trip. His house was constantly in motion with little fix ups and expansions, but each project he started got finished. Everything that began ended.

Mako was satisfied with this. His life was by no means fast-paced, but it wasn’t stagnant either. No matter what his friends teased, his belly grew out of the need for more space in his fridge, not from imaginary hours docked in front of his dusty TV. The only action Mako took that resembled stillness was his midnight rides, and even then, the wind was rushing past him, his radio was blasting through whatever happened to be on (Metal. It was usually Metal.) The spare tank of gasoline that Mako strapped to his back would be inevitably used up by the end of his adrenaline-fueled joyriding. There was no feeling like when he pulled back into his home just as the sun began to rise over his land, he and his chopper both coated in a thick layer of dust, grime, and gasoline. He’d be weary down to the bones as he wiped down his bike before flopping into bed. Just him, his hog, and the roof over his head. Mako couldn’t have pictured a better life. He could have died there and been perfectly happy. He should have died there. He should have.

Looking back on it, Roadhog could see the end coming. Each of his projects had been completed, sure, but they also had a shelf life before they need to be fixed up again or thrown out altogether. Mako should have known.

By the time the crisis ended, none of Mako’s work had mattered. Each nail that had held the walls together disintegrated, each roof shingle that had been carefully replaced was destroyed, and all that remained of his bike was half an engine, a license plate, and a smoldering bit of rubber. Nothing.

In the end, his work yielded no results. His hunting trips left him with nothing but an inflammable house and the stench of rotting, cooking, burning meat in the rubble of what had once been his home. All that was left of Mako’s life was scraps. All that was left of Mako was Roadhog. And all Roadhog knew was how to keep a job going. He didn’t care what it was, how long it’d take, or even if it’d be finished. Hell, sometimes they didn’t even get started thanks to the company he kept. Or the company that kept him, more like.

First, company had meant the old engineer that Mako used to know, then it was a triggerhappy freak who won them money just as quickly as he blew it all away, and now, somehow, it was an organization stupidly determined to make the world a better place at any cost. Overwatch. As history would recount as a mistake, Roadhog was now an agent of Overwatch. And somehow, so was Junkrat.

“Oi! Are you even listening to me?!”

Speaking of which.

“I swear Hoggie, sometimes I’d think you’d gone and hit the hay in the middle o’me talking! Like you got anything half of interestin’ to think of in that big ol’ mask o’ yours! Blimey!”

Junkrat paused expectantly, peering at Roadhog with his beady yellow eyes. Roadhog waited in silence. He knew the pyromaniac would fill it soon enough. He just had to wait.

“Jeeee-ZUS!” He latched both hands (biotic and otherwise) onto his singed and smoking scalp, looking ready to tear it out. “The fallin’ asleep is one thing, but the blatant disrespect! Honestly! It’s gone and lost me my train o’thought! Me idea’s just up and gone! Now the world will never know the brilliant plan I’ve done and come up with! There goes me moneymaking right thereRoadie! What’s a fine gentleman like meself supposed to do? It’s almost like you wanna be fired!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Junkrat froze. His eyes darted to Roadhog’s mask with an accusing glare.

“Is that it? You want me ‘ta fire ya? I’ll do it ya know!”

Silence again.

“Well, fine then! Since you’ve done and asked so nicely, I won’t! But ya gotta quit all of this wanderin’ off you’ve been doin’! You get me? You know I need ‘ta be focused ‘ta come up with these ideas of mine Roadie! Ya just gotta let me think once in a’while!” With that, Junkrat spun around to his work table (covered in a mess of wires, timers, and various unlabeled chemicals) and returned to hammering together what looked like a pack of C-4 and a bright purple bicycle helmet.

Roadhog heaved out a sigh. He glanced up at the camera in the upper corner of the lab. Even though both the bearded weaponsmith and the detail-oriented architech were currently working at their own pet projects, the supposed motion-tracking camera had never left Junkrat’s table.

Maybe these Overwatch flunkies weren’t so stupid after all.

The shorter engineer (“Torbjorn,” he’d growled out after Junkrat called him a dwarf in passing) was closest to the two of them. If he hadn’t known Junkrat, Roadhog might’ve called his workstation disorganized. There were various metals being superheated at different corners of his station. The man could seemingly build any weapon imaginable by combining them through different molds and a powerful swing of his hammer.

He had a dozen buckets of rivets lined up like a barrier between his desk and theirs, something that had appeared overnight after one of Junkrat’s grenades had rolled into whatever project he’d been working on. After the ensuing explosion, what was supposed to have been a grenade-launching battleaxe resembled a half-melted butterfly that had collided with a windshield: destroyed. That was the first time Roadhog got to see Torbjorn use his hammer on a person. It was beautiful. Torbjorn was a man that Roadhog could respect.

The other lab occupant however was someone Roadhog feared. When she’d stiffly begun to introduce herself, Junkrat had been so focused on her prosthetic arm that he (1) ranted out loud over her and (2) didn’t realize he was speaking to a woman.

“Blimey! You make that thing yerself? Nah, I don’t think so! You probably done and got one o’them high-tech companies to make ‘em for ya, dincha? A right shame that is! What’ll you go and do when it breaks down! You gotta make these things yerself, mate, or else yer gonna be spendin’ more money than that thing’s worth! I mean, I meself ain’t made of money but - Holy shit! Yer a bleedin’ sheila!”

Thankfully, the only infliction the idiot had received from that interaction had been a disdainful glare.

It was the next thing Junkrat did that sent him to the medic.

“I’m sorry, mate! I done and forgot meself! I thought you was one of us engineering blokes! I didn’t believe we’d get ourselves someone like you justa take our minds off work! Real fancy they got here in the hero world, but I didn’t think they’d be down to hiring someone to have a naughty with! Wowza! Can you believe it Roadie! Just when you think you got a place figured out-”

Roadhog isn’t entirely sure how it happened, but one minute the architech had been glaring daggers at the junker, the next her flesh and blood hand was wrapped around Junkrat’s throat. She didn’t choke him, just held him still as eerie strings of light shot from her prosthetic to his skin. Junkrat’s eyes had widened until they were more white than color. Then, just as quickly as she’d grabbed him, the engineer released him and swiftly exited the room. Junkrat had spent a solid three minutes sputtering and coughing instead of speaking before Roadhog realized what she’d done: she’d done something to his throat.

After an examination by a rather bemused angel, it was revealed that the woman, Symmetra apparently, had coated Junkrat’s vocal chords in “solid light.” He was incapable of speaking for three entire days. The only reason Symmetra undid her work was when she found Junkrat attempting to swallow small bombs to try and free up his voice. By then Roadhog’s cheeks had been sore from grinning.

Due to past interaction with the two heroes, it was rare that their schedules overlapped. Normally, as soon as Junkrat entered, the other two left.

“Fine by me!” Junkrat would announce without fail, “I say, screw’em! It’s you and me against the world, ay Hog? And we’re gonna win! No matter who we gotta blow up! We just gonna blow ‘em up first…”

It usually devolved from there.

This time however, the other engineers were seemingly too invested in their work to just abandon it as they normally would. Torbjorn’s furnace was baking various meticulously designed parts while he constructed molds on the side of his desk. Roadhog couldn’t see clearly what Symmetra was doing, but he could tell just from the amount of light coming from her table that it was bigger than what she usually constructed. (Small turrets. Guns. Various angles and complex shapes that Roadhog couldn’t name.) Their combined focus was greater than the force of Junkrat’s shouting from his corner of the room, something that the living explosion couldn’t seem to accept.

“What kind of idea was this, you? Join the heroes! You say! It’s gonna be a wicked way to earn money you say! We’re gonna blow up so much shit you say! But you didn’t say nothing about the inhospitality didja Roadie? Heroes are too hoppin’ focused on world savin’ to have any fun! And what’d I ever do to get this treatment Roadie?”

Roadhog looked at him.

“What?” Junkrat sputtered, “He looks like a dwarf! And it ain’t my fault that I ain’t ever seen a pretty bomb maker before, isit? And! And! Explosions are just a workplace hazard! The man shoulda been expecting it! I mean, watchin’ for it! ‘Sides, it ain’t very hero-like to hold a grudge, now is it? I’ll show ‘em!”

With a final twist of a zip tie and a ‘Hurrah!’, Junkrat slapped his hazardous creation on his head. His creation, which was naturally a bomb strapped onto a bicycle helmet, looked about two steps away from falling over and blowing itself up. Using a metal shard he had on his desk as a mirror, the bombmaker drew a lopsided smiley face on the front of the helmet, then with a matching grin, he marched out of the lab. Neither engineer appeared to notice.

Whatever was happening was a very bad idea. Roadhog wasn’t sure he had the energy to watch the man kill himself right now. Besides, five seconds had already passed. He wouldn’t have time to catch up before Junkrat activated his helmet.

Right on cue, the sound of manic howling came from somewhere outside the lab. A beat. Then the room shook.

“No, no! No!” Torbjorn snarled, “Damn!” Roadhog watched as he yanked his metal work out of the furnace. The shaking had been enough to reduce each shape to a puddle on the tray.

“Junker! I thought you learned your lesson the last time!” The man turned, hammer already in hand, but Junkrat was gone. Confusion etched onto his face as the room shook once more, this time accompanied by inane laughter.

“Where the hell’d that moron get off to?”

Roadhog didn’t answer.

“Do you speak? Where’d he go?!”

The communicators on both engineers’ desks sounded off.

“He’s in the cliffs.” Symmetra read out from her station.

She took one longing look at the object she’d been creating for the past few hours before twitching a finger and watching it disappear.

To Torbjorn she said, “He will cause a landslide if he continues. Come, Torbjorn. We must assist.”

The engineer growled in response, but followed her out the door, leaving Roadhog to an empty room.

The camera was still fixed on him.

He snorted an scratched at his stomach. The team speaks so much about trust, but in times of emergency, their lack of it shows. Makes them smart, sure, but it makes them hypocrites too. Roadhog unclipped the communicator from his belt and checked it. Nope. No calls. No warnings. No reason to help then. His stomach gurgled. He might as well get something to eat. He returned the communicator to his belt, stretched until his back popped, and then left the lab in search of the kitchen.

Through the hall and into the kitchen, Roadhog realized that it was close to evening, just barely light out. They must have been in that lab longer than he thought. What a waste. All that time and all Junkrat does is strap a bomb on to a helmet and then use it right away. Idiot.

The building shook again. Out the window, Roadhog watched what looked like most of Overwatch hopelessly chasing after a figure on fire. Junkrat on fire. Again. He sighed and looked around.

It spoke volumes of how the team spent its money when the kitchen was bigger and better equipped than the laboratory. Where the labs were enclosed and dark, the kitchen was open and well lit. The appliances were the largest Roadhog had ever seen. It was enough to make him drool. Just as he got his hand on the handle of the holy grail of refrigerators-

“Howdy.”

-A cowboy strutted into the kitchen. A blanket-wearing, cigar-smoking, hat-tipping cowboy.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced as of yet, have we?” He was wearing spurs. Spurs. If there was a horse sitting around the corner, Roadhog was leaving. The cowboy laughed.

“You must be Roadhog then. Nice to put a face to the ransom. Speaking of, the name’s McCree. I’m warning you now, folks around here are gonna tell you all sorts about me, but all you gotta know is to stay on my good side and we’ll be a-okay.” McCree pointed double finger guns at him. Roadhog continued to stare. His belt. His arm. The room shook with another explosion. The cowboy scratched at his beard.

“Oh! I get it. You’re wonderin’ why I’m not out there fightin’ the good fight? Heh. Well, uh, I ain’t too good with missions of the non-lethal variety,” he patted at the six shooter holstered on his hip for emphasis, “and as far as I can tell, we’re all still keen on keepin’ that bag of cats out there alive,” McCree whistled out a note, “Yessiree, ain’t no reason for me to be out there right now.”

McCree looked suspiciously sheepish. Roadhog waited.

“Alright!” he blurted, almost spitting out his cigar. So much for a steel trap cowboy. “I’m not supposed to help everyone else out on account of it being my night on dinner duty. You can’t just order a pizza out here y’see. But all I know howta make is chili, beans, and mac and cheese outta the box, and that ain’t the type of food I can make for a group this size… It’s a real pickle I’m in, I’ll admit it.”

McCree peered at Roadhog from under the brim of his hat. “I don’t reckon that you’d happen to know a thing or two about cookin’ wouldja?” he glanced pointedly at his stomach and at the hand that was still latched to fridge, “Care to help a fella out? Make a step in the right direction?”

As a hunter with a small range of prey, (rabbits, kangaroo, the occasional deer or fox) Mako had to get creative with how he cooked up his meat. When in doubt, he’d barbecue, but for special occasions, he knew how to marinate and spice up meat like he knew his backyard.

Yeah, Roadhog knew how to cook.

He shook his head. The cowboy visibly wilted.

“Well damn. Alright then. I suppose I’m on my own for this one. Beans it is. And hey, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with beans.” McCree jangled his way over to the cupboards, muttering the whole way about beans. Roadhog couldn’t care less. He wanted food, and based on where McCree was headed, it sounded like he’d be needing enough for dinner.

The fridge was startlingly barren, mostly fruit (and bananas? A lot of bananas) but some cheeses as well. It wasn’t until he spotted the pullout drawer when he hit the jackpot: Ribs. A motherlode of pork ribs. He could tuck away at least two racks, easy, and no one would even notice their absence from the size of the stockpile. The room shook once more.

“Ouch! Sonuvabitch!” There was a sound of metal crashing behind him. Across the room, McCree had fallen victim to an onslaught of falling cans. “How is it that we have a stockpile of canned food but no goddamn beans?!” He rubbed his head, no doubt bruised from the falling food. Roadhog turned back to his ribs. They were frozen, so it’d probably take about three hours to cook them...With the size of these ovens, Roadhog could probably cook six racks in each. A feast. He glanced back at the cowboy digging through the seemingly endless rows of soup cans.

It’d be worth testing out the ovens for.

2 hours in saw a McCree who had finally located some beans, and after overcooking two separate batches, seemed to have finally remembered how to cook them.

“I ain’t used to cooking for more than one,” he complained, unprompted, then to himself, “Goddamn, they are never gonna let me live this down.” True to form, McCree cooked his beans in small portions and, ridiculously, added them up instead of utilizing the enormous pot already sitting on the stove. A stove which was cooking Roadhog’s dinner with a vengeance if the smell of sizzling pork had anything to say about it. McCree noticed.

“Hey you got something cookin’ in there don’t you? Smells mighty fine. Mind tellin’ me what it is?”

Roadhog didn’t answer. McCree didn’t seem to notice the other two ovens cooking just as steadily. Roadhog didn’t care to point it out.

“Well I’ll just have to have looksee then.” He propped the door open then without a word shut it again. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Those are ribs.” He pointed at the oven. “You’re cooking ribs up in that oven.”

The cowboy had a funny look on his face.

“Those are Reinhardt’s ribs. Roadhog. Do you know who Reinhardt is?”

No answer.

“Of course you don’t. Oh boy.” Just like that, McCree was howling with laughter, clutching his chest like his heart was trying to leap out of it. He was going to swallow his cigar. “Aw shit, you don’t got a clue what’s comin’ to you.” The man was a hyena. A cowboy hyena. Ridiculous.

“Jesus Christ, you’re gonna get one helluva introduction ainchta? Holy hell!”

Roadhog grunted and the cowboy looked at him.

“What?” he chuckled, “You gonna finally drop the Keaton act now that you know you’re a goner?”

He pointed to the smoking beans on top of the stove.

“Aw hell.”

While McCree dealt with his burnt beans, Roadhog looked out the window to check the progress of the others catching Junkrat. It’d gotten dark out, but the explosions had continued like fireworks into the late evening. Every now and then, he could spot various heroes against the cliffs. The blue of Symmetra’s arm, a neon green that would dash up the cliff vertically, the orange glow of what must have been Torbjorn’s hammer, something that looked like wings.

The explosions were becoming more and more sparse as the night dragged on, but knowing Junkrat, it couldn’t have been due to lack of explosives. The man was practically a living bomb. Roadhog had never once seen him run out. The lack of explosions could only mean that the team was finally pulling it together to drag him off of the cliffside. Maybe if they dealt with it in time, McCree’s most recent batch of beans would still be warm. If they took any longer, all they’d get from him was a pot full of cold beans with a burnt layer on top.

McCree seemed to come to similar conclusions.

“You think this pot will fit in the microwave?”

Even in this kitchen, the microwave woudn’t fit a pot that size. McCree tried anyway. And failed. And failed again. Then, Roadhog’s dinner was ready.

The oven mitts were all ridiculous, each exclaiming things like “Let’s get baked!” and “I’m smokin’!” Roadhog went with the pair that looked like sharks were eating his arm. Terrible, but not the worst. He carefully removed all six racks from the oven, placing them down besides a miserable McCree.

“Damn,” said McCree. “Those are some fine-lookin’ ribs.” Roadhog didn’t respond. The other two ovens still had a few minutes on them. Outside, he could hear shouting.

“And you got six whole racks there,” McCree groaned, “We coulda used the other ovens!” He chewed furiously on the stub of his cigar. “But you said you couldn’t cook! I woulda damn near _paid you_ for something like that.”

Roadhog glanced at the oven timers. Three minutes each. The shouting outside had stopped. It was eerily silent outside.

“How much?” asked Roadhog. McCree shot up in his seat.

“You serious?”

Silence.

“I don’t got my wallet on me, but I think I got twenty dollars I’d be willin’ to part with.”

Silence.

“Oh come on, there’s no way you can whip up somethin’ as good as those ribs by the time the whole crew gets here!” McCree looked suspicious. “Fifty bucks and I ain’t goin’ higher!”

Roadhog looked pointedly at the clock. It was nearly nine. He looked at the half spilled pot of cold beans sitting next to the cowboy. McCree gulped.

“Alrighty, fine, you gotta be some kind of miracle worker here or I’m gettin’ my money back! Ya hear?” He reached into his back pocket. “An even 100 sound good to you?”

Roadhog thought about it awhile, then nodded.

“Dandy. Better work that miracle.” The cowboy slapped the bill onto the counter and crossed his arms expectantly. Roadhog picked it up, checked it against the ceiling light, nodded, then folded it twice and crammed it deep into his vest pocket.

“Well? Whatcha gonna make, Buster?”

A beat.

Then three things happened all at once.

One: The oven timers went off simultaneously, causing the cowboy to jump so high that he fell over in his seat and onto the kitchen floor.

Two: Outside, a barrage of rapid and bright explosions sounded off, causing the entire room to shake and for McCree’s poorly cooked pot of beans to topple off the counter and spill onto the stunned cowboy.

Three: Junkrat leapt screeching into the room like a demon booted out of hell. The canisters on his vest were almost all empty, his hair was on fire, and strapped to his belt was the godforsaken purple bicycle helmet, brimming with bright yellow clanking grenades.

“Roadie! Grab the grub and run for it! That all won’t distract ‘em for long unless it killed one of ‘em! Lesgo!” He howled like a rabid dingo then dashed, still on fire, from the room, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake.

“What in Sam Hell?! Are those oven timers goin’ off??”

Roadhog layered three racks of ribs onto a plate, swiped a bottle of barbecue sauce, and sprinted out of the room as fast as he could run.

Behind him, Roadhog could hear the crashing sound of an exhausted team of Overwatch heroes collapsing into the kitchen. In front of him, Roadhog heard cackling.

“Vhere….Did he go?” A German. Then, “Are those...? MY ribs?”

Roadhog crashed into his quarters and locked the door behind him.

Time to put out a fire.

* * *

 

McCree wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. All he knew was that one moment he was making the deal of his lifetime with a goddamned seven foot mime dressed as a pig with wheels, and the next he was on the floor, covered in beans, and in the possession of at least twelve racks of Reinhardt’s ribs. And he was pretty sure he’d seen the devil sprint through the hall.

“Are those MY ribs??” Reinhardt repeated. He looked dazed, but then again, so did the rest of the team. Hell, so did McCree if how he was feelin’ had anything to do with it. It looked like everyone short of Hanzo was aching for a breath. Even Orisa looked like she was having trouble computing whatever they’d just been through. Behind him, the oven was bleeping like a smoke alarm.

“Ah, nosirree, those ain’t your ribs, Reinhardt. Of course not,” McCree managed.

“Then whose are they?”

“Why, I reckon they belong to everyone don't they? It was my job to make y'all dinner tonight! Remember?”

“McCree!” Reinhardt roared. McCree flinched. “I have spent my night defending my entire team from a lunatic! If what I have to come home to is a CHALLENGE to my talent as a chef...Do you truly believe that you can cook MY OWN ribs better than I? REINHARDT?"

“No, no! That’s not it at all! This ain’t a challenge! This is-” He scanned the tray. “-Three racks of ribs! That’s not enough for the whole team! This ain’t near enough for a-”

“Then vhat, my friend, is in the oven?”

Aw shit.

The room was silent. The ovens continued beeping damningly behind him.

Upstairs, there was a crash, a scream, and then the sound of water running.

“Oh my god,”

Hana was giggling.

“We just got beat by Junkrat!”

First Hana was the only one laughing. Then Genji was snickering. Angela started to chuckle. Then Torbjorn began to belt out laughing and suddenly it was the whole team damn near pissing themselves over what just happened. Only Symmetra seemed to still be peeved at the situation, but that was far from a surprise.

Not one to let an opportunity go to waste, McCree quickly pulled the remaining ribs from the ovens and piled them up in front of the team. He hoped to all that was holy that Reinhardt would forget the "challenge" and just eat the meal. And hey, if it really came down to it, McCree could always just fess up that Roadhog had been the one doing the cooking. After all, McCree was down a hundred for it, he can chose who gets the credit and when.

“Dinner time y’all. Hope ya like-” Another crash upstairs. McCree winced. “- _my_ cookin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never challenge Reinhardt. McCree's in for a world of hurt, but hey, at least Roadhog got a hundred out of it. 
> 
> There should be an update in the next day or two. Let me know if there are any glaring problems that I missed. Or, you know, spelling errors.


	2. Pharah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pharah wants her mech back.

Missions, Roadhog learned, were one hell of a distraction. Teams would be sent out with little to no warning and given a rundown on the way. The debrief, which tended to be longer than the mission itself, contained no context, few parameters, and no introductions.

At first, Roadhog had assumed that not knowing the members of his team wouldn’t be an issue. As long as he wasn’t shooting the brightly costumed freaks with guns, he thought he’d be fine. It took getting chewed out by the medic after playing backup to some tech-infused purple chick (apparently not a teammate) for Roadhog to realize that his opponents tended to be just as colorful as his allies.

Since he wasn’t trusted enough into the computer system yet, there was no way Roadhog could learn the names of all the heroes he was put into contact with. There were too many who lived off-base. Instead, he opted to spend the duration of the journey to the mission carefully taking note of each costume. Cowboy, Ninja, Pinkie, Angel, and of course, Junkrat. (They’d tried separating Junkrat and him up once. It hadn’t ended well.)

Roadhog had easily taken the position of a tank, and after much trial and error (and error, and error, and error,) Junkrat ended up in defense.

“Suits me, don’t it Roadie? When the lead guys screw the whole thing up, I’m there ta’ fix it for’em! It’s just like what I’m used ta’ doin’ with you! I’d thank ya’ for the practice, but we all know I’m a roight natural!”

Regular city-based missions (emergencies, distress beacons, threats of invasions or bombs, etc,) had Roadhog skirting the edges of of the main group, looking for scouts and snipers as well as scaring the shit out of alley-dwellers.  Roadhog did his best work picking off loners with a yank of his chain and a quick blast from his scrap gun, but he suspected the reason they kept giving him the same job was because it kept him out of the main action.

Overwatch’s position was tentative as it was, and if word got out that a known murderer with a ransom taller than the Queensland was working with the same crew that was meant to be stopping him, then it was very likely that Overwatch was toast. Not that Roadhog gave a shit. As long as they kept putting targets in front of him, Roadhog didn’t care where he swung at them. A job was a job was a job after all.

Missions set in poverty were different. Less technology meant less of a chance of being recognized meant Roadhog got a little more wiggle room. These jobs were normally more of a security deal. Looking out for gangs or other possible disruptions as some payload or another was sent from one end of the town to the next was common. Sometimes he’d just be there to wrestle anonymous crates onto a nondescript pickup. Normally, they’d just have him run through the alleys. Whether it was because of his tendency towards crime or his mugshot in the news, Roadhog had never once been put into contact with the payload while it was moving. Until today.

Shipped out overnight to Mexico, the team was made up of more unfamiliar faces than usual. Junkrat (naturally), Angel (medic), a Ninja (green), a Bird (mech suit), and a Number (76). Roadhog guessed Number was in charge by the way he growled while the payload was being loaded.

“Alright listen up!” he barked out when they finished, “We only got an hour for this payload to make its destination, and I have it on good authority that there’s gonna be trouble. Los Muertos is a nosy gang, but they’ll back off if they think we out muscle ‘em. So that means you-” he pointed at Bird, “and you-” Roadhog, “Sit on the truck. Make your weapons visible. _Genji,”_ Ninja shot up from whatever he was crouching over in the corner, “Do your thing, but don’t turn off your lights. We want them to see you. Everyone else,” Junkrat giggled, “follow behind and lay low. I’ll scout ahead. Any questions?” he pulled a beefed up rifle off his back, “Good.”

Bird marched up the back of the carrier cart and Roadhog lumbered his way up after her. Her yellow visor was down, but he could see a frown on her face. _Whatever._

There was a green flash from Ninja and the carrier jolted forwards. Roadhog turned to the side of the cart and watched the city drift past.

They seemed to be in some sort of neighborhood. Little houses stacked up one after the other like dominoes. Some still had lights on, but most had their shutters drawn and latched and Roadhog wondered if they had been warned. Maybe they were always this cautious. The sparse and flickering street lamps casted looming shadows across the streets. It was dark enough that Roadhog could see Ninja’s green lights flashing as he silently leapt across rooftops up ahead. On the other side of the carrier, Bird’s mech whirred and the sound echoed into the night.

As they passed an alley, Roadhog spotted a little girl with her back turned. She was moving forward in a way that wasn’t quite dancing, but wasn’t walking either. Swaying. Her arms were stretched out at her sides like she was an acrobat on a tightrope keeping balance. When he listened, Roadhog could hear her humming a little off pitch tune. She was in her own peaceful world.

There came a shout, and the girl looked up as a man, her father, ran forward and pulled her into his arms. He was murmuring to her in rapid Spanish but his eyes never left Roadhog. Roadhog stared back. Without another word, the father hoisted the girl into his arms and raced away from the carrier and back into the shadows. Roadhog saw her peering over her father’s shoulders before they disappeared.

The payload drifted on.

Twenty minutes passed by. Except for the occasional shift in Bird’s mech, all was silent. Not even the bugs flickering about the street lamps buzzed. It was almost peaceful. This type of peace and quiet had become a rarity since meeting Junkrat. Speaking of, he hadn’t heard so much as a _minor_ explosion from the idiot since the payload started moving. Strange. Angel must have figured out that so long as he was talking, he wasn’t destroying. Maybe Roadhog should be giving Overwatch more credit.

He shook his head to clear it. No. That wasn’t right. Even if Angel had let him run his mouth, they’d be able to hear him yapping up here. Something wasn’t right.

A timer beeped. The carrier had reached the halfway point. They had thirty minutes to go.

Roadhog slowly surveyed the rooftops ahead. No green flashes. No Ninja. He didn’t know how to check for Number, and his communicator was set to emergency mode. He could only send out a request for backup and receive messages from others. In other words, there was no way to know what was going on. There was only one thing he knew for sure: Junkrat never shut up.

Decision made, Roadhog hefted up his scrap gun and fired it straight up into the air.

Bird’s response was immediate.

“What are you doing?” With practiced precision, she yanked the gun down so it aimed at the floor of the carrier. Holding his stare into Bird’s visor, he raised an arm and pointed at the rooftops ahead.

Roadhog couldn’t see see her eyes, but Bird’s entire body stiffened.

 _“Genji,”_ she cursed. Roadhog dropped his arm.

Bird knelt to the edge of the platform and tapped the glowing red brake button. They waited. The carrier drifted on. Bird cursed. She stood and looked back. Then she cursed again.

“The carrier is not stopping,” she said, “and I cannot see Genji. Call for backup. Now.”

Roadhog yanked it off his belt and looked at it. Ninja was gone. Junkrat was silent. Bird was demanding. Number was nowhere in sight.

“What are you waiting for? Call for backup. The sound of your gunshot is bound to attract trouble whether we’re already in it or not. There’s no time to waste.”

Roadhog shrugged.

“What?” she growled, low and menacing, “This is protocol. Why are you waiting?”

Roadhog looked at her.

“Fine. Then I will do it myself!” She began tapping furiously at the side of her helmet. “Keep a lookout, pig, or are you unsure of that as well?”

Roadhog sighed. Bird was smarter than the man by miles, but when it came to a situation like this, she was no Junkrat. Roadhog heard a small beep.

“76,” Bird said into her mech, “76, we are calling in for backup.” A pause. “76. Backup is requested at the payload.”

When he listened, Roadhog thought he could hear footsteps, but it could have just as easily been the wind. There was another beep.

“Mercy. Mercy, requesting backup.”  

Roadhog watched as the street lights behind the carrier started to flicker off, one by one. He could hear the glass as it shattered.

“Angela, are you there?”

The carrier came to a sudden halt. _Beep._ Bird continued.

“Genji. Genji, Come in.”

The last street lamp spluttered out. As his eyes began to adjust to the sudden dark, he could just barely see Bird tilt her head to the sky. _God help me._ Another beep.

“Junkrat. You are needed. I repeat: Junkrat, you are needed.”

Roadhog readied his scrap gun. Whether there was a moon or even stars out didn’t matter. Thick clouds hid the sky.

Both Roadhog and Bird stood on the still carrier in complete silence and waited.

Slowly, a sound trickled from their surroundings. It was low and soft and it floated to fill the emptiness that lived in the street.

Laughter. Deeply unsettling laughter.

Roadhog dropped from the carrier with a _thud._ The laughing ceased. Bird’s armor whirred once more. Then:

“I have spent my evening feasting on insects,” the cold voice drifted in on a nonexistent breeze, slowly, “And now it seems, I will be treated with a pit roast _-”_

Roadhog heard the shot but he _felt_ the bullet as it whipped past him, centimeters from his ears,

“-and a turkey dinner.-”

He heard the _ring!_ as the second shot ricocheted off Bird’s helmet. The voice chuckled. “But I am not totally cruel,” Roadhog heard a small scuffing sound from the buildings he knew were directly to his right. “I will give you a chance to _run.”_

“You cannot scare-” Bird started boldly, but Roadhog was already racing away.

Down the road and into the first alley on his right, the sniper’s chilling laugh followed him.

“Oh you poor thing,” she crooned, “What would your mother think?”

If there was an answer, Roadhog didn’t hear it. He slumped against an alley wall, his chest heavy. But he didn’t have time to take a break.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his lifesaver, a container of compressed hogdrogen.

Highly flammable. A perfect bomb.

Junkrat will never let him hear the end of this.

Around the corner came the sound of gunfire. The fight had started. Now was the time to do what he did best. Beneath his mask, Roadhog grinned. Run through alleys and take out snipers.

He heaved himself up onto a dumpster with a bang, and from there the roof of someone’s home. (If the gunshots hadn’t woken them up, this was about to.) Roadhog was no Ninja, but he could jump across rooftops easy when they were only two feet apart.

He jumped and landed and jumped and landed, noticing that the pitch blackness of the street dissipated into the the open air. Ahead of him, he could make out a silhouette of something that was too tall to be a trick of the eyes and too curved to be a chimney. The sniper. He gripped the hook in his hand tightly. Just a little bit closer…

Out of nowhere, a beam of light shot into the air, illuminating the sniper in its red glow.

“Heal up!” barked Number from the street, “We will see this through!”

The assassin tossed her head back and laughed. “Jack, you never cease to amaze. Reyes will be pleased to hear it took two shots for me to kill you.” Her grin was visible, sharp and white. “Twice as many as the rest of your team took.”

In response, Number shot her. Or tried to. Roadhog didn’t have to be within earshot to know the old man was growling in frustration as she nimbly leapt out of range. Out of range, but closer to Roadhog. This was about to end.

With one hand, Roadhog readied his hook, with the other, he gripped the hogdrogen can. He could practically hear her screaming as she realized who would kill her. This will be such a satisfying kill.

Ahead of him, Bird shot into the sky, launching missiles at the sniper.

“Of course,” she drawled over the sound of explosions and gunfire, none of it touching her. She locked her eyes on Roadhog, “You didn’t assume I was alone, did you, _chéris?_ ”

As soon as the words left her mouth, a billowing black cloud of dust rose from beneath Roadhog’s feet, materializing into a cloaked figure in front of him. He drew two oversized rifles from his sides and pointed them at Roadhog.

_Hell._

At least he had ample experience getting blown off rooftops.

Plunging back into the dark street, Roadhog landed hard on his back. His skull was ringing, his lungs ached. Above him, he saw the skull-masked freak beginning to dissolve back into dust.

Amidst the pain, there was a twinge of something deep in his chest as he realized that he was enjoying this more than any bank heist. The thrill of being outplayed, the threat of losing, it all heightened his senses, made him feel the blood pumping through his veins.

If only he could pick himself up off the ground.

“Roadhog?” A voice from above him. He squinted. Halo? Check. Wings? Check. Disapproving frown? Check. A sigh. “Just a moment.”

Being healed was a strangely chilling feeling. Much different than his hogdrogen cans, which left him with a buzz of energy to spend. Being healed by Angel reminded him of the feeling of ice clinking against his teeth. Weird. He’d only ever healed himself. Angel didn’t seem to mind up until now.

“You should feel better now.”

Roadhog nodded.

“Then will you stand.” It wasn’t a question.

Roadhog rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself off the ground.

“Good. We need to gather the others. The payload is already-” she checked her communicator, “Ten minutes late. We have one seriously injured teammate that needs to be brought to the medbay on a ship with the most hazardous human being I’ve ever met, and if that was who I thought it was on the roof, then-” A hand flew to her forehead.  “Let’s just say, the sooner we get out of this situation, the better.” Angel gave Roadhog a once over. “You should/ head back to the warehouse. The rest of us will rendezvous there momentarily. Go.”

Without another word, Angel’s wings began to glow and she shot into the air. Roadhog watched her glide towards the explosions. The echoing of the sniper’s laughter seemed to ricochet down the walls of the street.

Roadhog thought about it.

He decided he was not going to the ship.

He raced down the road with all the force of a man high on adrenaline, reaching the carrier in what felt like seconds. Just ahead, both the ghost and the sniper had been knocked into the street. Number was shooting at them with a vengeance and Angel had produced a pistol. Bird was in the air firing missile after missile at their foes. Roadhog had no idea how the two were surviving the barrage. He stepped forward and readied his scrap gun. _Time to have some fun._

Just then, Bird rose into the air. The wings of her suit fanned out, revealing a stockpile of missiles that would reduce her enemies to less than ash. Junkrat would have drooled. There was a trigger in her hand and a smirk on her face.

“Widowmaker!” she shouted, there seemed to be a pause in the gunfire as the woman in purple looked up.

_“Justice rains from above!”_

She pulled the trigger.

“Birdie!” shrieked a voice from the rooftops, “Whatcha’ think yer doin’?? That down there’s Roadie!” It was Junkrat.

Shit.

Roadhog watched Junkrat trigger an explosion, sending himself flying into the woman with a veritable nuke dropping from her wings.

Roadhog could stop him.

In slow motion, he watched his hook fly from his grip towards the madman. The chain rattled as it swung itself around Junkrat’s stomach and yanked him back towards its owner.

Roadhog had Junkrat.

But Junkrat already had Bird.

Yanked by the force of Roadhog’s weapon, the explosives scattered off kilter and away from their intended targets. Instead, they plummeted towards the payload, obliterating the cargo and pulling Junkrat and Bird both through its sudden inferno.

When the smoke cleared, Roadhog was left with a chain dangling from a hovering Bird with Junkrat (on fire) flapping about like a string in the wind.

Roadhog had inadvertently created the most destructive kite in the history of man.

Junkrat looked so very proud.

* * *

 

“Widowmaker got away,” Number growled.

Bird was staring.

“ _Reaper_ got away.”

Angel shook her head.

“A member of our team was injured.”

Ninja was unconscious on the ship’s med bay.

“The payload was _destroyed.”_

Junkrat giggled.

“And an entire neighborhood was set on fire.”

Number tossed down his rifle. It clattered loudly to the floor.

“So does someone want to tell me _what went wrong?”_

Silence. And then:

“Why didn’t Genji call for backup?” Angel spoke, “As far as I can tell, Reaper took him out before Widowmaker got to Junkrat and me.”

“Dontcha’ mean Junkrat and _I?”_ said Junkrat. He tapped his temple, “Ya gotta use the right grammar, sheila, or we ain’t gonna be able ta’-”

“Shut. Up.” Number said.

“All I’m saying is if you gotta speak, speak proper.” Junkrat mumbled. He crossed his arms and sniffed indignantly. No one paid attention.

“Mercy,” Number snarled, “Do you think - do you honestly believe - that this complete failure of a mission was a case of who screwed up first? Because, correct me if I’m wrong, _doctor,_ but I’m _pretty damn sure_ that Genji was unconscious for the majority of tonight’s mistakes.”

Mercy tried to protest.

“ _Am I wrong_ , Doctor?”

Roadhog could hear her grind her teeth.

“No, _sir._ Genji was unconscious for most of the mission.”

“So, doctor, how about we don’t go about blaming the injured and instead look at what we actually have to work with.” Number grabbed a metal stool and pulled it screeching towards the hangar benches. He sat down. “It’s a long flight back to Gibraltor, so let’s make this easy. _What went wrong?”_

Silence again. They could hear the sound of the wind whipping past the shuttle. Roadhog glanced at his scrap gun and wondered how satisfying it would be to tear a while in the wall and watch everyone die.

Bird mumbled something under her breath.

“What was that, Pharah?” Number asked.

“I said, it was the pig!” Bird snapped. She pointed. “He noticed Genji was missing and instead of saying something, he _shot his gun_ to get my attention! He drew the enemy’s attention to our location which led to at least half of our problems! Not to mention that he refused to call for backup without giving a reason, he _abandoned his post_ the minute trouble showed up, and he directly caused the destruction of the payload. I’ll say it again: It was pig’s fault. The pig was what was wrong with the mission, sir!”

Silence again. Number rubbed at his visor.

“Anyone else?” he asked.

“I do not see what’s so complicated about this sir. It was-”

“I said,” he cut her off, “Anyone else?”

Junkrat raised his hand. Number sighed.

“Go ahead.”

“I think it was yer fault cap’n. You went ahead o’everybody dintcha? You coulda warned us blokes in the defense about it or at least kept a better eye out! ‘Sides! Yer the leader! It’s yer fault no matter what we do! So I think you should just let all us off the hook and we won’t report ya!” Junkrat nudged at Angel with elbow, “See? That’s how it’s done!”

“Is that all?” Number asked. His visor was blood red. “Would anyone else like to add anything to this truly insightful conversation?”

Roadhog was the only one who hadn’t spoken yet. He thought about it. Then he shook his head.

“Perfect.” Number stood and started to slowly pace the floor. “Let me tell you what went wrong. It isn’t some puzzle you gotta solve and it sure as hell doesn’t have anything to do with did what. What went wrong is that you weren’t acting like a team. You were acting like a bunch of piss-poor kids.”

Bird and Junkrat huffed at the same time. Bird froze in her seat.

“Do you get it? If you don’t act like a team, you screw up. Simple as that. If you need me to explain it, you need to find a new job,” Number walked through the doors to the pilot’s bay. “Outside of Overwatch." The doors slid shut.

“Maybe,” muttered Bird, “If the junkers had just done what they were told-”

Junkrat bounced out of his seat.

“Maybe if you’d just shut yer-”

Roadhog snorted.

“Hey! What’s so funny, you? I’m standin’ up fer our honor! Honestly! You think I’m gonna just sit here and listen to that one slander our names!”

He waited.

“Yeah so what if our names are already slandered! They can hardly take any more of it! Could you imagine if our reps got so bad that everytime one of us said somethin’ someone started laughin’? I mean I would hafta go and blow ‘em up!”

“Pharah!” Angel said abruptly, “I could use your assistance in the med bay with Genji. Would you give me a hand?”

“Of course.”

They left. Junkrat was too distracted with what he was saying to notice. Which meant he’d already forgotten his problem. Easy. Roadhog leaned back and waited for the plane ride to end.

* * *

 

Three days later, Roadhog entered his bunker for a midday snack. Except Junkrat was there. And he’d kidnapped Bird.

“Oi! Hoggie! There you are! You ready for some good ol’fashioned revenge? ‘Cause I got our ticket, right here!” He slapped the mech suit with his prosthetic hand, making the suit echo with noise. Which meant it was empty. Which meant Junkrat had just stolen the suit.

“Well, Roadie? Whaddaya say?? Cherry bombs? Gasoline? Grenades? Hydrogen? Carbon dioxide and a shove offa the roof?” Junkrat cackled. “Now that right there’s the best idea you’ve ever had!”

Roadhog said nothing.

“Aw, now what’s that for? You gonna tell me you _don’t_ wanna blow this thing up? After all that rantin’ you did about how she hurt ya feelins and everythin’? Nothin’?”

Roadhog lumbered his way over to the mech suit, grabbed its arm, and unceremoniously chucked it out into the hall. Where it wouldn’t be his problem.

“Fine! If that’s how yer gonna be! I’ll deal with it! Yer gonna regret the hell outta this though, let me tell ya’! It’s gonna be a roight blast! Literally!” With that, Junkrat stomped out and proceded to drag the empty suit down the hall.

Roadhog sighed. He was alone. It was quiet. Junkrat was going to be busy for at least an hour. He could take a break.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Three knocks. Crisp. Formal.

Roadhog grunted and the door slid open. In the doorway stood a woman with long black hair, a rigid spine, and some sort of stylized tattoo beneath her eye. Roadhog had no idea who she was.

“Roadhog,” she greeted. She looked like she might be in pain. Had he and Junkrat robbed her museum? Her warehouse? Her bank? Her mansion?

He waited.

The woman sighed. “I am not one to waste my time with small talk when we both know where I stand on your...work ethic.” Roadhog didn’t respond. Clearly she remembered him. Probably from a mission. Was she one of the higher-ups in charge of assigning him?

“Just - Just give me my suit back.”

And it clicked.

Bird.

Bird wanted her Mech back. If only she’d shown up two minutes ago. It would have at least been less work for him.

Bird crossed her arms, clearly wanting him to tell her where it was. Roadhog gave her a pointed look.

“What is that supposed to mean? You want me to pay you or something? I will not. You stole from me. I should not have to lose more to get something returned. Just tell me where it is. I will not leave until my armor is in my possession.”

Roadhog watched his peaceful hour on his own fly out of his grasp.

He pushed past Bird and began walking down the hall. He heard her marching in time behind him.

Junkrat was going to go to the lab first, but there was no way he could do that while dragging a six foot tall metal shell behind him and get away with it. Which meant he’d stashed it somewhere along the way.

“Why would you even do this?” Bird burst out from behind him, “I already moved past the issue. I moved on. Mistakes are made and missions fail. I do not understand why you would take that out on me. Especially when it’d be much more fitting to take it out on your partner in crime.”

Roadhog turned left and walked down the stairs. So far, there had been no half open doors or windows. It must have been hidden further along. Maybe if he found it quickly enough, he could still get back to the pie in his bunker. He could practically hear it calling his name.

“And that! I do not understand why you don’t just speak! I’ve checked with Angela twice and she says there is no reason for your muteness. Which means there should be no reason for you not to tell me when you think there is a problem. It’s foolhardy.”

Bingo. Junkrat was never subtle, but this was ridiculous.

“Is that?” Bird stared at the half-melted wall, “The trash chute?”

Junkrat had blown up the trash chute to make room for the mech. The lab was just around the corner. It looked abandoned. Roadhog was pretty sure he could have just dragged it in with him.

Bird was still gaping at the wall.

“Did you do this?” she asked.

Roadhog was silent.

“The junker. The junker did this.”

Roadhog turned to the elevator.

“Why didn’t you just tell me in the first place?” Bird wanted to know.

Roadhog just pressed the button for the basement.

The ride down was silent. Apparently, Overwatch knew that elevator music didn’t make the experience of being stuck in a room with another person any better. Good for them.

The doors slid open and both Bird and Roadhog stepped out. A dumpster sat to the right of the elevator with the blown up chute funnelling into it. Bird raced ahead and climbed up the side, apparently eager to see her mech. For a fleeting moment, Roadhog wondered if Junkrat had blown up the chute and the mech at the same time.

“Oh no,” said Bird.

So Junkrat  _had_ done something to it before tossing it.

He looked at her.

“Oh, it’s not blown up,” she said, shaking her head, “It’s just - It’s green.”

Roadhog tapped his hook against the side of the dumpster and she grabbed it from him. After a few seconds, he heard a _clank!_ and two knocks. He hoisted the suit out and Bird climbed out after it.

It _was_ green.

Bright, shiny, green.

“Damn.” said Roadhog.

Bird looked at him. Then she looked at the suit. Then back at him.

“Let’s start over,” she suggested.

Roadhog thought about it for a moment. Then he nodded.

She held out a hand.

“Hello Roadhog. My name Fareeha Amari, codename Pharah.”

Roadhog stared.

She laughed and put her hand down. “You can call me any of those three names. I do not mind.”

Fareeha wandered over to the emerald suit and tapped a button making it stand up on its own. A few more button taps and it followed her to the elevator. Roadhog walked a few feet behind them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And no time for pie :(
> 
> Ended up with waaaay more mission. And I couldn't get Junkrat and Pharah to stop complaining. Also, I swear I don't hate Mercy. Morrison was gonna chew out whoever spoke first no matter what, and that just happened to work best when it was Mercy. 
> 
> It's going to be about a week until the next update.  
> Again, let me know if you have any questions, comments, or corrections. Thank y'all.


	3. Zenyatta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenyatta wants to learn how to be as peaceful as Roadhog.

There was one thing that made Roadhog’s living conditions unbearable after joining up with Junkrat.

Bombs, grenades, and even bear traps getting set off every five-odd minutes was fine. Roadhog could handle random explosions or else he’d have left a long time ago. The constant talking and/or rabid cackling was pretty much standard too. No. The one thing that made Roadhog want to quit at least twice a day (and three times a night) was the complete lack of personal space.

Roadhog could give a damn if Junkrat wanted to leap up onto his shoulders each time he came up with an “ingenious, one of a kind, top-knotch, bleeding BRILLIANT” plan, just as long as he had the room to himself afterwards, and at first, he had that. An empty kitchen. His own room. An empty road. But it seems that as your partner drags you higher up the world’s most wanted list, the hideouts and hotel rooms get smaller and smaller.

Soon enough, Roadhog was spending months on Junkrat’s time without so much as a five-minute break to breathe his own air. He’d have to wait for Junkrat to pass out over his latest experimental bomb to sneak to the fridge and grab a bite to eat. There’d been more than a few times where Junkrat had woken up halfway through his meal only to moan about the smell of pizza disturbing his beauty sleep.

Needless to say, it was a miracle that Junkrat was still breathing.

Before Junkrat, the only time Mako had shared a room was when he was in a crib. As soon as he was able to walk, his parents set him up in a room across the house. Back then, he hadn’t really understood why, especially when he woke up with nightmares but didn’t want to cross through the dark house. One time in particular, Mako remembered waking up with a stomach ache. He tossed and turned for what felt ike hours before his digestive system seemed to make up its mind and suddenly he was vomiting. He was older then, nearly four, and he had actually considered going to wake up his mom to help clean up, but he thought better of it. Instead, he took care of it himself, and the next morning, his parents were mildly impressed. His mom even thanked him for letting her sleep. It was what it was and Mako learned to appreciate being on his own.

When he reached his early twenties, his parents decided to “retire” from the solar farm business. They left the land for Mako and left the country for (of all places) Canada and Mako couldn’t have cared less. He knew how to work the farm in his sleep, and the rest of his life was his own as far as he was concerned. Over the course of another twenty years, Mako made the house his own, learned to hunt, and the only people he interacted with were those he met at pubs and customers who wanted upgraded solar plans. It was what it was and Mako was fine with it.

Then the Omnic crisis and Mako didn’t care.

Then the displacement and Mako couldn’t stand still.

Then the fallout.

Then Junkrat.

Now, Overwatch.

Roadhog couldn’t remember exactly how he and Junkrat had ended up on the heroes’ side of things. Considering their track record, the idea that the two of them would be working on a relatively low profile, low paying, people-saving task force when they could have just as easily continued robbing banks without a hassle was difficult for him to wrap his head around. The lunacy of their situation had Junkrat written all over it, yet Roadhog couldn’t remember the lunatic ever proposing something _that_ insane.

Yet here they both were. Among a bunch of gushy goodie two-shoes whose biggest crimes were wanting to save people illegally. And the group kept getting bigger.

McCree was still the only member who lived on base who had bothered to introduce himself, but Roadhog never saw a lot of the cowboy off-base. Angel on the other hand was deployed on almost every mission. What little time she had to herself, she spent living out of the medbay. The talking gorilla scientist (something Roadhog thought was made up as some sort of half-assed hazing process until he actually met the man. Ape. Whatever.) apparently preferred the name ‘Winston’ and was an easily identified teammate for obvious reasons. Symmetra and Torbjorn were daily fixtures in the laboratory, especially after the incident with the exploding bicycle helmet.

(Apparently, whatever had occurred in those three hours chasing after Junkrat had won something bordering on respect from those involved.

“They love me now Hoggie!” Junkrat had practically squealed, “Talk to me and everythin’! I toldja they’d quit the whole cold shoulder show afta’ they witnessed me pure! Awesome! UNQUESTIONABLE! GENIUS!”

From his work station, Torbjorn had managed a terse chuckle. Across the lab, Symmetra had scowled. Roadhog guessed that respect had been too strong of a word. Ambivalence maybe. Tolerance? Not respect.)

However, after that mission with Pharah, Roadhog began to recognize a few other faces here and there, especially the heroes who didn’t have enough of a life to live off-base. The green ninja was occasionally spotted sitting, legs crossed, in the rec room with a bowl of popcorn and a soap opera playing out in front of him. As far as he could tell, the popcorn only there for ammunition. The cyborg would mercilessly pelt the tv whenever a character from his dramatic soap opera did something stupid (frequently), revealed a secret (often), or when the blue ninja with the tattoos tried to speak before the commercials began (not often, but when the archer happened to slip up and mumble something about the _“ridiculous nature of inane and pointless entertainment,”_ the entire punch bowl was dumped unceremoniously onto his head. When McCree was there, the green ninja would receive a hearty laugh and a high-five).

Ninjas aside, the infamous Reinhardt was impossible to ignore, mostly because of his explosive reactions when he was challenged. Or when he thought he was challenged. Or when he thought someone had thought about challenging him. Or when someone said good morning. Reinhardt seemed to react to most things as if they were a challenge, even when the perceived challenger swore up and down that they would never question the knight’s abilities. Such was the case with McCree when Reinhardt ambushed him in the kitchen for a cook off. The cowboy had tried to explain that he hadn’t even been the one to cook up the man’s ribs, but (thankfully for Roadhog) Reinhardt didn’t seem to care. Needless to say, the scorched walls and busted cabinets had been repaired, but the kitchen was never the same. The smell of burnt meat, spoiled cheese, and ruined pride never fully left the air. It was a wonder why the rest of the team never took to wearing gas masks.

Now, today, three new members, all of which would be living there permanently, were expected to arrive, and all of Overwatch was being called in to meet them.

“I jus’ don’t get it!” Junkrat fumed as they watched through the second story hall window. A pink-haired agent made of muscle stepped out of a helicopter marked with a Russian gold eagle. “They didn’t call in the ranks when we joined, now did they? We barely even got an introduction! Just moved in without so much as a how you do! What do these newbies got that we didn’t got then Roadie?”

Roadhog gave him a pointed look.

“What! A clean track record never got nobody nowhere!”

Roadhog waited.

“Morality ain’t so important neither! Come on!”

The helicopter lifted back into the air and vanished over the cliffs.

“Oh, yeah!” Junkrat snapped his fingers in realisation,  “A regard for human life! I been meanin’ to get us one o’those! Figured we could split it! Maybe when I do, these righteous assholes’ll give me a proper welcome then! Insteada acting all high and mighty just ‘cause they care so bleedin’ much.” Junkrat fell forward onto his crossed arms and glared at the newest arrival.

A brown haired lady with a glowing blue vest pounced out of the unmarked helicopter and raced forward to give Winston a throttling hug.

Following her was Pharah, looking completely exhausted. Her mech suit had been almost completely returned to its original blue, but there were still traces of emerald green scratched around the joints and the chest plate. Her helmet was at her side. She glanced over her shoulder and motioned for the next passenger to follow.

Using Pharah’s hand for support, a girl who could’ve been no more than twelve clambered out of the helicopter. She blinked at the brightness of the sun.

“Oy! How young do you gotta be to keep outta the action around here, ay Roadie? The girl looks like she got lost on the way to daycare! Christ!” Junkrat shook his head, “They’re gonna put us on babysittin’ duty next is what’s gonna happen Roadie!” Roadhog doubted it. Overwatch was naive, but they weren’t stupid. “But I’ll tell ya right now! I won’t stand for it! The little devil down there looks like she’s gonna go and pass out if she so much as _sees_ a bomb! That won’t do, mate, that will not do.”

In fact, the little girl looked like she had as much energy as the first agent out of the vehicle. Maybe more. She drank in the size of the watch point before snapping her head towards the worn out Pharah and asked something. The older woman laughed and shook her head then pointed into the building. The little girl immediately released her hand and darted towards the base, apparently not at all interested in the talking gorilla clearly trying to get her attention. Pharah just looked relieved to be free of the kid.

She gave the all clear to the pilot and the second helicopter flew off without a moment’s hesitation. Only a small assortment of luggage was left on the landing pad. Winston laughed and helped Pharah carry it all inside.

Then the landing pad was empty. And beside him, Junkrat was suspiciously silent. Roadhog bit the bullet and looked to his right. Junkrat had pulled out a wall socket and was furiously working at the exposed wires with a pair of wire snippers and some sort of hand held soldering gun. A pile of bright yellow grenades rested by his knee.

If Overwatch was stupid enough to put crucial wiring two centimeters into their walls, then they deserved whatever Junkrat was cooking up. Roadhog watched without a word.

The sound of mechanical whirring and heavy metal clanks sounded up the stairs at the end of the hall. The four-legged robot with ram horns (Roadhog remembered seeing it once or twice out the window in his barracks) rushed down the stairs with all the excitement of a puppy being called to eat. It passed Roadhog and Junkrat and began skipping down the stairs to the first floor. Then it stopped. Roadhog watched as it slowly traced its steps back to Junkrat. Instead of using the soldering gun to join the wires together, he seemed to be connecting the wires to the tool itself. Roadhog was beginning to suspect that it only looked like a soldering gun. The robot stared. Junkrat didn’t notice. It glanced down at its arm - some sort of automatic weaponry - then down at Junkrat again. With a sharp twist of its head, it met eyes with Roadhog. It nodded down at Junkrat in a silent question. He reached blindly for a grenade through the mess of wires.

Roadhog did nothing.

The robot’s yellow eyes narrowed. Then, decision made, it slowly turned around and promptly bounded back down the stairs. Roadhog snorted. The robot clearly had its priorities in order.

“Was that the ol’rustbucket?” Junkrat asked without looking up, “Thought I heard the sound of bullshit engineering!”

The two of them recognized an off brand mecha-wannabe when they saw one. The Junker Queen’s Scrapyard had been the only real form of entertainment in Junkertown and there wasn’t a junker in the whole of the outback who couldn’t tell you an Omnic from a Mech suit from a robot. Roadhog figured that whoever designed the robot on base had seen at least one mech battle and got it in their heads that it’d be better if they _weren’t_ controlled by people. That’s how Omnics happened. Ask anyone in Australia and they’ll tell you what a mistake those kind of robots were. Dumb as nuts. Dumb as bolts.

“Attention Overwatch members,” the intercom system buzzed out. Athena, Roadhog remembered. “The vehicle carrying our three newest arrivals is expected to land in approximately five minutes. Please make your way to landing pad as soon as you are able.” The intercom shut off.

“Ah well,” Junkrat heaved out a dramatic sigh and dropped his mess of wires and bombs to the ground, “I’ll just have to finish this up later, ay Hoggers? Don’t wanna miss meetin’ all the newbies, now do we? Of course, that woulda been easier if I’da had time to finish up here! But-” He grinned. “I always did prefer to improvise for these things.”

Junkrat leapt up on to his feet and began to sashay down the hall. Roadhog took one last look at the empty landing pad before following the sound of Junkrat’s clicking leg down the stairs.

* * *

As it turns out, there may have been a bigger reason for the whole team being there. Now Roadhog wasn’t sure, but it may have had something to do with the Omnic. The first two members had introduced themselves easily. One, Lucio, was apparently a famous DJ and the other, Mei, was some sort of scientist from the arctic. Both had been recognized from different members of the crowd. The girl with a headset on her shoulders and pink tattoos on her face seemed especially excited to see Lucio, and somehow he had been equally excited to see her. Then the third arrival floated onto the landing pad.

“Greetings, Overwatch,” said the Omnic.

“Greetings my ass!” said Junkrat. He launched himself over the crowd and landed directly in front of the Omnic, mine ready to throw in one hand and a trigger in the other. “Oi Monkeyman! What the hell is this all about! You lookin’ for a new type o’bot for the firing range?”

With a green flash, the ninja appeared. “Of course not! That!” He pointed. “-is my master! And if you attempt to fire _anything_ at him-” he drew his sword.

Winston looked decidedly nervous.

Before he could speak, a voice piped up from the stiff crowd. “Cool!”

Roadhog watched as the little girl from climbed off the green robot with the ram horns and zig-zagged her way through the team until she stood in front of the Omnic.

“I recognize those orbs! Are they really powered by Omnic energy?” Roadhog squinted from the behind the group. There were apple-sized spheres hovering just above the robot’s neck. They seemed to each be shifting through different colors of light. “How does it work? Can you do that with any object you want? Or does it have to spherical? Do they have to be crafted specially? What are thy made of? Do you levitate them the same way you levitate yourself? Or is it different?”

There was a stony silence. The green ninja was watching the kid, but his sword was still pointed at Junkrat who was, somehow, mute. Then:

“My child,” the Omnic made a sound like it was _chuckling,_ “It is not just Omnic energy that does this. It is the energy of the soul.”

“Yes,” said the girl impatiently, “But _how_ does it _work?_ Is it electromagnetic? Is it through light constructive mechanics? Is it-”

“Peace, peace,” the Omnic waved its hands down placatingly, “I’m afraid I do not know if there is any science to it. I know that once I found light within the Iris, I was capable of many feats.”

“You aren’t even curious?” the girl huffed, “How could you-”

“Oi! Girly!” Junkrat interrupted, “You best get outta the way of that! It clearly ain’t even programmed to be curious, alright? Just let it be and we’ll work on gettin’ rid-”

“I assure you, Overwatch will be doing no such thing!” said the green ninja, “Zenyatta is a part of Overwatch now!” The crowd began to whisper. Most seemed more or less ambivalent, but the pink-haired Russian from before sounded particularly insulted.

Junkrat cackled, “Like I believe that! You guys are the good guys! Ya can’t honestly believe one a’them could be-”

“That’s enough!” The crowd hushed. Winston had reached his limit. “Junkrat, put the mine away. Genji, your katana. We are here to greet our new members, not dismember them, and if _anyone-”_ he addressed the rest of the team, “Takes issue with any members of the team and has a _valid_ reason for them to be removed, then by all means, I’m available in my office.”

“Valid?” Junkrat hissed out, “It’s a bleedin’ Omnic!”

“In the meantime,” the ape continued, “How about we all break until dinner and we’ll get the three of you settled in.”

The crowd began to talk amongst themselves once more. Junkrat packed away the trigger and limped back through the crowd muttering the whole way. It was only when he reached the back beside Roadhog that the green ninja sheathed his blade and turned to speak to the Omnic. The little girl seemed to be trying to continue her interrogation about the floating spheres. If Roadhog had to, he’d say the Omnic somehow seemed amused.

Roadhog kept an eye on them.

“Hey! Roadie! Hey! Listen here!” Junkrat whispered, loudly. In his hand, was the trigger to the mine from earlier. “Look! I dropped the mine down over by the tin can!” Roadhog spotted the flashing red light near where Winston had been standing. “All we gotta do is wait for it to move over a meter or so and our problem’s gone! BOOM!”

Junkrat’s shout echoed. Those of the team who hadn’t left yet gave him a wary look before continuing their conversations. The Omnic didn’t seem to notice at all. Winston grabbed the green ninja by the arm and pulled him to the side, seemingly ready to lecture him. Roadhog spotted Symmetra scowling at the little girl, probably for being unprofessional. The kid was now jumping up into the air to try and grab an orb and the Omnic drifted from side to side to avoid her swiping.

“This has gotta be my best plan yet!” Junkrat drummed his fingers over the trigger, centimeters away from the red button. “You’ll see! The blokes here’ll be thankin’ me for this! You just wait and you’ll see it! You’ll see!”

Almost right on cue, the Omnic began to float backwards, directly towards the mine, but the girl followed closely, laughing and trying harder to steal a glowing ball.

Roadhog thought about it. He didn’t _like_ omnics, that much was true. He didn’t hate them, not like Junkrat did. He hated that they were still being created, he hated that there was no real way to stop them, but what he _didn’t_ hate were little girls with a vocabulary higher than his. Junkrat’s thumb was hovering dangerously close to the trigger button. The Omnic and girl both drifted closer. Roadhog shot Junkrat with a look.

“What?”

Roadhog waited.

“What? I don’t think I’m hearing you right! What could possibly be the problem with this! It’s foolproof! Simple! It’ll practically do the job itself! And! We’ll be rid of an Omnic! Happily ever after, mate!” The little girl swatted at an orb and it wobbled in midair.

Roadhog stared at him, but Junkrat shook his head angrily.

“You know what? I don’t got time for this! I’m in the middle of a plan here Roadie! Ya can’t interrupt me! Look! It’s almost where we need it!”

Roadhog shook his head and pointed at the girl, but Junkrat wasn’t looking. The omnic was too far away from him and too close to the mine. Winston and Ninja were in the middle of an argument. Symmetra was distracted with Torbjorn and McCree. No one saw the threat. He only had one option.

Just as the Omnic began to turn around, Roadhog raised his left fist and brought it down hard on Junkrat’s skull.

Except Junkrat was still watching him.

He dodged to the side of Roadhog’s fist and yelped, “Roadie! Whose side do you think you’re on?!”

Roadhog swung at him again. Junkrat jumped out of reach. Out of the corner of his eye, Roadhog saw Symmetra shift her scowl from Torbjorn to Junkrat to the trigger in his hand. Her gaze darted to the Omnic, sitting perfectly over the flashing mine and the little girl too busy trying to snatch one of the orbs to notice.

Just as Roadhog moved to try and tackle Junkrat to the ground, Symmetra lunged forward, prosthetic beaming blue, and Junkrat pulled the trigger.

_Puft._

Dust. A huge cloud of dirt and dust covered both Omnic and child. Junkrat had both hands over his ears and a grin on his face. The trigger had fallen to the ground. Symmetra was frozen, her hand still outstretched, beams of light shot into the dust cloud. Winston and Genji began to rush over. McCree and Torbjorn stared, McCree with his gun drawn. Roadhog stood very still. He watched.

The dust began to drift apart. The first thing he could spot was a blue dome of light, no bigger than a punch bowl, capped over a crater exactly where the mine had been. Floating peacefully above it was the Omnic and beside him, the little girl hugging a glowing-yellow orb to her chest.

Symmetra dropped her arm. The dome faded. McCree dropped his gun to his side. Junkrat-

“What the hell Sheila! I thought you’d up and warmed up to me dinja? Why’d you go and do that! And You! Roadie! I can’t even believe it! Has the entire world gone mad??” Junkrat’s arms were up in the air in disbelief. Symmetra left without a word. Roadhog remained silent. Junkrat stared at him for a second, then his eyes widened.

“OOH! The girlie!” He smacked his forehead. “I forgot all about that one! But you didn’t! Yah big softie! I swear, if your worryin’ about civilians keeps gettin’ in the way, I’m gonna fire ya! I will! Anyways! The bot’ll be livin’ with us right? We’ll have plenty o’time for a second chance! It’ll be a slice o’cake or I’m not the most qualified genius in the whole of-”

“Junkrat!” The man winced at his name being called.”Come with me!” The great ape was practically red in the face with anger. _“Now.”_

“Well Hoggers!” Junkrat chirped, “I’m off for awhiles! Don’t go and screw anything else up, you hear! Just ‘cause you’re on yer own don’t mean you getta stop followin’ my rules!” With that, the singed junker sauntered into the base, the steaming Winston just about stomping on his heels.

The landing pad was finally empty.

“Peace be with you.”

Oh no.

“I believe that our paths have not yet crossed my friend.”

No. No. NO.

“Yet, when you saw a threat to both my and my young friend’s lives, you sought to cease it, and for that, you have my thanks.”

Be done now. Be finished. Stop.

“However, I must ask-”

NO.

“My introduction was not met….positively to say the least.”

Roadhog stared.

The Omnic laughed. “Yes, it seems that even in a team of heroes with a goal of the greater good there lies such things as prejudice and hatred. But my question is not one of great magnitude such as how one may breach through these doubts, for I know that with time, even the man with the explosives will learn to accept instead of to fear.” He doubted it.  “My question is of a scale that most would consider trivial.”

Roadhog suddenly missed Junkrat. Hell, he’d take Symmetra. He’d take fear and deadly amounts of scowling over the faceless Omnic any day.

“My friend, I simply wanted to know, for I was aware that we are strangers as I do not know your name even now, are you a friend of the child that succeeded, however temporarily, in stealing away one of my orbs?”

If the Omnic had any more branches off his sentence, Roadhog could build a treehouse, and then shove the bot out of it.

Roadhog decided that not answering the question was more convenient.

“Hmmm…” pondered the Omnic. The lights on its metal skull seemed to dance. “Is there a reason that you do not speak? I wonder.”

* * *

Junkrat hadn’t tried to murder Zenyatta again. Not yet anyway. Instead, he’d taken up a side hobby of plotting Winston’s death.

“It’d have to look like an accident...I know! If he uses an electric toothbrush! I can rig it up to explode! It’ll look like an accident! Perfect! Roadie? Are you writing these down?”

Roadhog had picked up his own hobby: Avoiding the Omnic. Everywhere he turned, the so-called “monk” seemed to pop up. Roadhog wondered if it had advanced sensors that let it see through walls or something. Each encounter came with one or two questions that seemed to take the machine twenty minutes to ask. First it was just a repeat of the last one, if he knew the little girl or not. Then it was whether Roadhog was sitting in the kitchen in the hopes of running into “unburdened souls.” Then it was whether or not loneliness was his greatest enemy or simply a contender.

Roadhog hated the Omnic. Hated it. He spent the time in between Zenyatta’s questions regretting ever trying to save it. What was the life of one little girl to the amount of suffering he was going through now? Hell, if he’d just let it happen, the both of them would probably be chased off the team. He could’ve been free. Instead, Roadhog now had to hide out in the garage like an idiot because he decided to screw himself over.

“Greetings.”

Damn it.

“My friend. I hope it is no intrusion of your privacy, and if indeed it is then like the mountain foxes of my temple I will make haste to be early and apologize now, but I have asked Winston to inform me of your name, because you have no way of telling me, and now, I have it, and along with it, a question.”

Roadhog wanted to find out how long an Omnic’s body would run around without its head.

“With each interaction I take with you, I sense more and more of the deep disquiet within your soul, yet, for a reason I cannot ascertain, for you do not seem to be in meditation in your silence, I have not heard from you more than I hear from a stone on a mountain. I imagine that, much like the mountain stone, you would only need a small push to cause you to tumble into a landslide, yet-”

Roadhog learned quickly that there was always a ‘yet.’

“I have yet to see you, the admirable boulder, so much as tremble in your fortitude. Now my question is this (and I realize now that it really presents itself in two parts): What caused this disquiet within your soul and how do you remain so steadfast in your composure despite keeping such stressful company in the forms of the various members of Overwatch as well as your close friend who previously attempted to take the life of me as well as the young child, Efi, the creator and good friend to the wonderful Orisa?

Roadhog waited.

Zenyatta waited, but somehow more politely, before continuing.

“My friend Mr. Rutledge, I did not, in reality, predict a response from you, for, while I may be wrong, I believe that you uphold the ideology that if one desires to learn, then they must learn for themselves, much like the bird who kicks their nestlings from the only home they’ve ever known. Some see it as cruel, others see it as what you may call “tough love,” and others, such as myself, would call it the only lesson those birds will ever need.”

Why the hell was Junkrat taking so long in the practice range? They were inexplicably in charge of restocking amo this week, and it’d be well worth ruining their reputation and leaving on time if it meant getting the hell away from the idiotic Omnic.

“You see, Mr. Rutledge, I have met many monks in Shambali who have taken oaths of silence in order to maintain enlightenment. However, I have never encountered, nor do I suspect I will ever encounter again, one who takes an oath of silence despite the chaos fighting within themselves. Do you perhaps see the path my mind is travelling down?”

The orbs around Zenyatta’s neck twirled around in a loop, each flashing a different color. The machine looked like a damn christmas decoration.

“I suspect that you do, however, I must voice the idea aloud, for I admit I am not what one might call adept at social cues.”

Five more minutes. Roadhog could last five more minutes.

“Mr. Rutledge, my friend, I would ask that you would allow me to follow you and learn of your stony resolve so that I may too keep peaceful and serenity against the battles warring around and within me. I wish to collect the skill of remaining level-headed no matter the circumstances, a skill that you have clearly mastered. So, I ask again, would you allow me to follow and learn from you?”

Roadhog locked his eyes on the Omnic. No. God no. Never.

“Oh!” exclaimed the machine, “A reaction! No doubt of surprise. Yes, my friend, it is true. Though the Iris remains the way I view the world, and indeed how the world sees me, I, too, have moments of chaos and occasionally, anger. I suppose if I am to learn from you, you should know of what causes my pain, for it is daily and it is constant.”

Sure. Why not. Roadhog supposed the Omnic could have a few last words, and they might as well be the ones that cause him pain.

The Omnic took a pause and Roadhog almost smiled at the silence.

“It is the violence.”

The omnic raised a hand and tapped carefully at his temple.

“I remember all that occurs, as is the nature of my being. Therefore, I remember every action against me as well as every action I take against others.”

A sigh.

“They are not all as easily avoided as your friend with his mine. And really, it is not the violence itself that causes this turmoil, for I understand the need to defend oneself from outside forces. In actuality, I support it. It is acts such as those that ended the lives of many of my friends, my former master, may he rest in peace, and even my student, Genji. Violence that is unprompted should never occur, and I spend hours wondering if things would have ended differently for those who struck out against perceived enemies due to their own nerves or goading.

And the worst of it all is all too common here at Overwatch: The sort of violence that is meant to stop future violence. To me, and I believe you will agree with me, you who saved me through violence only when the options of alerting others or another peaceful means would have surely resulted in my death, violence that starts in order to prevent further violence only sets off a chain of destruction and even death.

It is unnecessary to act against something when there is no way of knowing if it is certain. Not even the enlightened can see the future. But one does not have to be enlightened to see that unprompted violence, no matter how small, is in nature, criminal.”

The Omnic pauses.

And Roadhog says nothing.  
  
And Roadhog is silent.  
  
And Roadhog doesn't care.

And waits.

And says nothing.

And doesn't care.

And says nothing.

The Omnic sighs.

"My only hope is for the rest of the team to realize that violence cannot remove violence. Only peace can achieve that level of equilibrium. Only when provoked should someone such as you or I ever resort to violence."

And now, Roadhog is trembling with fury.

And Roadhog knows like he knows his name, that if his mask were gone, if the omnic could see his face, it would know hatred and violence and all that is wrong with the world. It would see the willing ignorance of the public and the past and the dumb shock of losing everything that makes a person a person, but most of all, the omnic would see a house. On a farm that no longer exists in a land that is only what the monk sought to cure without regard for reason or reality. The omnic would see the peace before the war, the life before the carnage, the whole before the scraps. And the omnic would have no choice but to understand. Understand that waiting to be provoked, waiting to be attacked, waiting for the man with the checkered flag to leap down from his pedestal and start beating him into motion, forcing Mako to choose to stand, to fight, to run as bidden, or to lay with his head buried in the dust until the steel ends him, all of it, none of it, was a mistake. A mistake. And Mako knew that if the omnic who saw silence as a means of peace only caught a glimpse at the rage in his eyes, in his skull, it would understand that when it came down to it, between prevention and adaption, there was only one victor. That victor was always and would always be Roadhog, and Roadhog was silent.  
  
A sudden flash of green light.  
  
"Zenyatta! You would not believe what the team wants to ask you! Well, not the team so much as Angela and Hana, but still! I can't believe-" he cut himself off, noticing Roadhog sitting. Silent. A part of a mountain.

Immediately, the cyborg's spine straightens.

"My apologies, Master. I see that I am interrupting. Were the two of you in meditation?"

A light chuckle comes from the omnic, and Roadhog wants to gut him like a rabbit. "No need to worry Genji. We were simply in the midst of a conversation. I was actually in the position of asking for a lesson from Roadhog here."

"I understand," Genji stated, "I will allow you to continue."

"My student," the omnic chittered, "If this situation you've called me for demands my attention," Zenyatta's head shifted imperceptibly towards Roadhog, "with the permission of my friend-”

Roadhog said nothing.

"Until our next meeting." Zenyatta bobbed its head. Roadhog watched the two of them, master and student, enter the building.

And he was alone.

It took him all of five minutes to remember how to relax. Then, he heaved out a sigh and followed the path to the door. He knew what he needed. He needed to find Junkrat. He needed to destroy.

* * *

It had been a rather calm afternoon. The energies of most of the other members had been relaxed and amiable. Most seemed to be taking advantage of the lapse in missions that had joined the arrival of Lucio, Mei, and Zenyatta himself. How peculiar. Zenyatta wondered if perhaps that was the reason for the delay of his acceptance to the team. Perhaps Winston and Angela were waiting for some sort of break in order to better ease in the three new members. Or, perhaps it was because he was an Omnic. Based on the lackluster response to his arrival, Zenyatta would not be, overall, surprised.

What was surprising was hearing a strange alarm sound throughout the tower. There were no flashing lights, or none that Zenyatta was aware of, and there had been no new presences that he could sense entering the premises, so it was not an invasion. He was considering the notion that it was some sort of fire drill when Athena spoke through the tower.

“Attention Overwatch members,” she reported brightly, “There has been some sort of glitch with the training bots in practice range C2, C3, and D1. They appear to have received an energy boost causing them to sporadically move throughout the watchpoint, shooting wildly. You are advised to remain calm while -”

Suddenly, Athena’s voice fizzed out. There was a moment of silence, the sound of a click, and then a new voice was speaking.

“Hello mates! Junkrat and Roadhog here! We are here to let you blokes know that what’s goin’ on now ain’t nothin’ to worry about! The bots’ve all just been upgraded! Now they’re harder ta’hit! And they’re outta the range! Better practice than anythin’ else we goin’ on in this block o’cement, ay Roadie? Alroight ya lot, have a blast! Yer welcome!”

The system clicked off and Zenyatta felt a faint ripple of confusion and panic echo through the watchpoint. Over by the practice range, he picked up the sound of laughter and explosions. It seemed that chaos truly is where the man called Junkrat thrived. He wondered if the production of chaos is the reason the Australian’s soul seemed so at peace.

Zenyatta set his musings aside as a practice robot appeared at the top of the staircase. It seemed to be confused at its newfound speed as it continuously rammed itself into the walls to either side. The poor machine couldn’t control itself and it shouted out fizzled exclamations of “Ouch!” and variations of it. Zenyatta guessed that if he could turn the bot back to the practice range, it would greatly appreciate it.

As he drifted over, the robot continued to ping-pong its way up the hall. Zenyatta reached out an arm to the bot’s shoulder in an attempt to begin to guide it and immediately the robot’s lights blazed red.

It spun itself onto Zenyatta and without any sort of delay, it fired.

Just not well.

The shot went wide of Zenyatta and burned through a wall at his side. Zenyatta glanced waringly at the melted concrete and idly realized that the shot could have easily seared through his own person. This was now self defence.

With hum, the orbs, both of harmony and discord rose into the air. Zenyatta shifted from side to side to avoid the spray of shots coming from the fried machine. Once he felt the gentle shift of energy fulfilling itself, he took a careful glance at the robot as it charged forward, and released it.

The orb successfully removed the training robot’s head. The rest of the machine immediately fell apart.

“Hmm,” Zenyatta said, considering the mess of bolts and parts scattered across the floor, “Chaos only begets more chaos. And this time….A mess.”

Before Zenyatta could begin to clean up, the parts began to whir. Zenyatta watched, curious, as they began to reconnect themselves, like a puzzle that solved itself. He prepared to fight the machine again, but when it snapped its head back on to its torso, its lights shone blue and the machine simply beeped and drifted back down the stairs. Presumably, it was restored to its original state and thus, would return to its original setting.

Zenyatta drifted over to the intercom.

“Athena, my friend,” he spoke aloud, knowing the AI would surely hear him, “How many of these tools of chaos are still among us in the tower?”

“There still remains eighty-seven malfunctioning practice bots on levels two and three. None have made it outside of the facility as of yet, and most on level two seem to be engaged with Overwatch agents Roadhog and Junkrat at this point in time.”

“Would you happen to know whether the two of them require assistance?”

There was a great pause.

“Neither Agent Roadhog nor Agent Junkrat seemed able to answer. Assumably, the two are busier with the fifty-nine robots currently firing on them. Based on those facts, I would advise assistance.”

“I can only agree, Athena,” Zenyatta began to float around the corner and past the resting quarters. “Many thanks for your guidance.”

“Any time, Agent Zenyatta.”

As he travelled closer to the source of the sound of explosions, he considered the man known as “Roadhog.” It was admirable to Zenyatta that his vow of silence was so consistent. There was no greater symbol of peace than the choice to remain silent even when there is greater chaos broiling deep within. The aura of hatred and discontent was seemingly a flooded river within the giant of a man. And, much like a flooded river, Zenyatta could only see it damaging the land around it, killing plants and animals alike, or in this case, harming the owner of its emotion. Zenyatta wondered if his student Genji would have held as much regret within himself if he had chosen silence and peace instead of rage and violent outbursts. Roadhog was clearly a man of great wisdom and knowledge of the world and its path towards greater peace.

The sound of rapid explosions and more laughter emitted from the common area to the North-Western corner of the watch point and Zenyatta approached cautiously. He could not discern whether the explosions were coming from friend or foe.

“KABOOM!” came a wild shout, “Now that’s what I call a roast! Ay roadie?”

The only response was a deep and foreboding laugh.

Hm. Zenyatta supposed that laughter was an expression not off limits to the silent hero. He made his way into the common area, only to see what looked like a fortress made up of the entirety of the seating of the room. The room would have looked vacant if it weren’t for the swarms of wild and weaving training bots. Each fired randomly, some hitting each other, but most hitting the walls and ceiling. Zenyatta bobbed to the side to avoid a lucky shot that would’ve gone through his head.

Amidst the chaos, the skinny bomb-maker was posed on the top of the fortress of furniture like a conqueror of the past with his one working leg grounded on top of a tire rigged with explosives and a lit stick of dynamite clenched between his teeth as a rather dangerous cigar. To his side stood Roadhog.

The mountain of a man shot a heavy chain into the mass of squirming robots and yanked it back. Like a fish on, well, a hook, the unlucky machine was yanked to the top of the furniture pile and immediately shot to pieces.

The agent growled.

“Too easy for ya, ay Hoggers?” cackled Junkrat, “I’m rather enjoying meself to be honest! Nothin like blowin’ up bots to get yer blood rushin’ ay? But ya know-”

“Shut. Up.”

Zenyatta stilled.

“Well, well, Roadie! I knew this’d be good for ya! Let loose wouldja!”

And with that, Roadhog's weapons clattered to the floor and he launched himself from the tower and on top of the mob of firing bots. He began swinging his fists left and right, smashing bot after bot into bits on the floor. Zenyatta watched him grab a bot by the head and squeeze. It burst into pieces.

“Scrap ‘em!” he roared and Junkrat crowed in response.

Before long, nearly half the crowd of robots was in pieces and Zenyatta couldn’t say who was responsible for mosre carnage.

“Oh no,” came a voice to his side. Angela was in standard medicinal gear and held her Caduceus staff at her side, “The common area…”

At this point, the room was indeed unrecognizable.

“Do not worry,” Zenyatta managed to get out, “I believe that the two of them will be finished promptly.”

“I have no doubt,” said the medic, “The two of them are responsible for over half of our damage costs. It’s ridiculous.” She glanced at Zenyatta. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to warn you about them. I know you probably figured it out after what happened when you got here, but you should probably avoid the two of them as best you can. They’re… ignorant to say the least.”

“So I’d gathered,” Zenyatta said drily, “Or at least, so I’d gathered from...Junkrat, is it? I believe that, despite their friendship, Roadhog holds a different point of view.”

“Really?” asked Angela. She glanced over at the destruction. “I’d be surprised if that were true.”

“Why is that? Has Roadhog expressed prejudice against Omnics?”

“Roadhog hasn’t expressed anything to anyone. The most I’ve heard out of him is laughing during missions. He enjoys destruction just as much as his friend,” Angela sighed, “But they’re both from Australia. Junkers, they’re called. They’re both old enough to have lived through the Omnic crisis and the fallout.”

Ah. So that was it.

“That is...regrettable,” said Zenyatta carefully, “I wonder if you could tell me-

“Oi! Tin can! Angel Lady! You know if there are any more bots comin’?”

Roadhog was staring.

“As far as I know, this was it,” Angela answered stiffly, “Reinhardt, McCree, and Hanzo went upstairs to deal with the rest. They should have finished by now.”

“Damn! What does a bloke hafta blow up to get some decent action around here?”

Roadhog was still staring. Zenyatta noticed a trickle of blood racing its way down his arm. For once, his soul seemed at peace.

“Junkrat, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me to the med bay.”

“What?? Why the hell wouldja go and do that for?”

“As much as I’d rather avoid it, you have several laser burns on your arms legs and torso, you’re limping more than usual, and your hair is on fire again.”

“Well fine then, have it your way, but I’m not going quietly!”

A sigh.

“Of course not.”

With a nod towards Zenyatta, the doctor led Junkrat towards the elevator. Roadhog stayed standing in the doorway.

Zenyatta looked up at him.

“You got something to say?” Roadhog growled.

And Zenyatta, having learned his lesson, said nothing.

Roadhog grunted and stomped away.

And Zenyatta, not yet a master of this skill called after him, “I suppose a less destructive solution was out of the question?”

A deep laugh.

“Violence,” said Roadhog, “Is usually the answer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet. Zenyatta likes to ramble.
> 
> Ack! So sorry for the delay! I uploaded the chapter a week ago but I hit save instead of publish! So sorry! If it makes it feel better, you'll have the next chapter in the next couple days. I just need to edit it. 
> 
> Once again, let me know if there are any mistakes or spelling errors! (Or anything confusing.)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	4. Mei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mei wants the watchpoint to be more eco-friendly.

Roadhog had one rule: Always have everything you need on you at all times. Weapons and ammunition hung off of his shoulders and his hogdrogen supply was crammed in his back pockets. Everything he needed.

He kept a crate in his room filled with whatever hogdrogen he couldn’t carry. Even if the whole thing got left behind, it’d take at least a day’s work for someone else to figure out how to use them. Custom filters were a pain to deal with, but they had their advantages.

His gun, his hook, his hogdrogen, his mask. All he had. All he needed. On him at all times. Always.

The setup became more and more useful to Roadhog after they got kicked out of Junkertown. Law enforcement (local or international) was likely to break down the doors to their lairs at any moment. Guys like Junkrat and Roadhog weren’t exactly built to stay off the radar after all. When they walk down the road, people notice.

Sometimes, the cops wouldn’t even bother double checking whatever hole the duo were squatting in. They’d just start shooting. It was one hell of a day when your alarm clock was the sound of gunfire chipping away at your door.

Roadhog had to admit that there was one good thing about Overwatch. Loud wake up calls only ever came when it was time for a mission. There would be days, sometimes _weeks_ , of downtime where Roadhog could wake up on his own terms. It actually took some getting used to.

Sometimes, the sound of footsteps walking past his door would be enough to jolt him awake. Roadhog hated those mornings.

Other times, Junkrat could lob grenades through his window and Roadhog would doze through it all. Roadhog hated those mornings even more.

Overwatch was, like all things, temporary. It was only a matter of time before their days as do-gooders ended. The two of them had already been living there for almost half a year, far longer than they’d ever stayed in one place before. Junkrat would get bored soon enough. Hell, Roadhog might get bored soon.

Currently, there was a lull on the mission front. In other words, nothing was happening. The most interesting thing in the past two weeks was the introduction of a human teammate along with another Omnic.

Unlike the monk, this Omnic was one that had been specifically manufactured to destroy humans. Ask anyone walking down any road in any country and they’ll tell you they were dangerous, the very symbol of the Omnic crisis. Roadhog saw the outburst of violence from a mile away.

Instead, the whole situation had been defused by Torbjorn of all people.

The human, Brigitte, was apparently his daughter. She’d been watching over the machine for him. Like a babysitter.

He explained that the Omnic, Bastion, was not the war-mongering machine of mass destruction that it had been designed to be. That was all the team needed to know.

The flimsy explanation was so transparently half-assed that Roadhog could tear it apart just by looking at it. But it had somehow been enough to satisfy the entire team.

Even Junkrat had shrugged it off, mumbling something about “Damn machine better stay outta my way or else it’ll have another thing comin’...”

All of a sudden, Roadhog found himself waking up in a base filled with do-gooders, two of which were Omnics, and a Junkrat that couldn’t seem to work up enough hatred to even try to kill either of them. He didn’t even rant about it anymore.

If that wasn’t enough, most of the team had heard that Roadhog had attacked Junkrat in order to save Zenyatta and that little girl. (Eli? Emily? Netti? It didn’t matter. She’d left with the other agents the next day.)

The credit of the save had gone to Symmetra (thankfully) but somehow the team still began to treat him differently. They didn’t nod or wave or smile or do anything stupid like that, but they began to _notice_ him.

Before, Junkrat had easily stolen all of the wary glances, but now, even Angel would flick her eyes towards him when he showed up.

It was unnerving.

It made Roadhog twitchy.

It made him want to douse the place in gasoline just to watch the heroes’ skin melt off their faces like wax. He wondered if their eyes would melt too or if they’d just roll out of their naked skulls like pebbles.

But Roadhog wasn’t Junkrat.

For him, it would take more than glances to send him burning people alive.

Instead, he resorted to hiding in his bunk. Not hiding. Taking breaks. Taking long breaks away from the characters of this twilight zone nightmare he’d stumbled into. Even Junkrat.

Especially Junkrat.

He ended up setting up his crate of spare hogdrogen in his closet. He’d spend hours sitting in the dark enclosed space eating dumplings and staring at the wall. It was boring but ultimately worth it for when Junkrat busted into his room and found it empty. As far as Roadhog was concerned, he could ride out the rest of Junkrat’s peaceful streak in boredom so long as he didn’t interact with him. That was the plan anyway.

Until someone decided to knock on his door.

And then keep knocking.

And knocking.

Roadhog gives up and goes to the door. It’s not Junkrat, so it’s probably related to him. Maybe Junkrat stole someone’s armor again. He had recently tried to “upgrade” Reinhardt’s hammer after all. Who knows.

His door slides open.

A short Asian woman with glasses and a blue parka (a parka?) stands in the doorway. Her gloved (gloved!) hand was frozen in mid-knock and her mouth was formed in a little ‘o’ of surprise.

“Oh!” she exclaims, “I don’t think I’ve seen _you_ before!” She checks a glowing comm-pad in her hand. “Are you...Agent Mako Rutledge?”

Roadhog grunts. He keeps forgetting that Overwatch has that name in their database.

“I’m sorry! It says here you prefer the name ‘Roadhog.’ I did not realize-”

Roadhog wants to shut the door in her face. So he does.

A moment passes. There’s a robotic beeping sound and then a yelp from the agent.

The door slides back open.

The parka-clad agent was struggling to keep hold of a hovering robot. The machine seems to be...angry? It’s pushing towards Roadhog as hard as it’s little boosters can go.

“Snowball!” shouts the agent. Roadhog suddenly knows where he’s seen her before. She was one of the new agents. Mei. That was her name. “Snowball! Stop!”

The little bot, Snowball, stops pushing forward. Roadhog figures it’s programmed to do whatever it’s ordered, except-

“Ah. Sorry about that, Roadhog, Snowball can be a little overprotective!”

Said robot’s little eyes were fiercely glowering at him through little triangles of light. The thing doesn't seem to realize that Roadhog could crush it between his finger and his thumb.

“Anyways, I was wondering if you could assist me on a project that would benefit all of Overwatch!” Mei’s eyes were glistening with excitement. A wide smile was dancing across her face.

Roadhog wanted to shut the door again.

“You see,” she continues, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, “Our electric supply right now comes from a power generator Winston made. It was developed from an older model that ran on diesel fuel! For a base like this, its carbon footprint is enormous! It isn’t right!”

She sounded so genuinely upset. Not righteous or angry, but somehow hopeful. Roadhog’s stomach curdled.

“I asked Winston about changing our system to something better, and he said that I could take care of it as long as the new option is cheaper. Athena gave me a list of Overwatch agents who could be most helpful and-”

Roadhog’s stomach dropped as he realized what was coming.

“You were at the top of the list!” She looked like she wanted to jump up and down. “You used to be a solar farmer, right?”

Mako did.

“So, if it isn’t much trouble, I was wondering…” She shrunk down, tapping her fingers together nervously, “Could you help me?”

No.

Wait.

Maybe.

The closet set up worked, but it was boring and dark. Nothing to look at. Nothing to do. Installing solar panels meant being up on the roof. Junkrat wasn’t going to check the roof. Installing solar panels could take up to a week if he dragged his feet. Junkrat might have rediscovered his hatred by then. He hoped so.

Mei was still standing there, biting her lip. The robot was spinning in circles. Bored. Roadhog could relate.

He nodded.

“Yay!” Mei shouted, leaping into the air in joy, “We can order supplies today and get started tomorrow!” Her energy was contagious. Luckily, Roadhog had his gas mask. “I’m so excited! Thank you!”

Roadhog shut the door before she tried to hug him. He could only hope that hard labor would be enough to ebb her happiness.

* * *

 

He was wrong.

In the two days he’d been working with her, she’d remained a constant flow of cheer. Mei had shown up in the afternoon heat still wearing the blue parka. He’d stared for a while before shrugging it off. If she got heat stroke, that was on her.

Much to his relief, Mei didn’t question his silence. She was more than willing to fill it with a steady stream of questions. He answered by pointing or nodding his head. It was surprisingly easy to work with her, sunny personality aside. She was smart and didn’t need explanations.

“Actually,” she admitted after she set up the wiring for a panel without help, “I do know a little about solar energy. I was stuck in the arctic on my own for a very long time and that was how I charged Snowball!”

At the sound of his name, the bot chirped and attempted to burrow into her hood. She giggled and patted his head. It was adorable. Roadhog struggled to look away and keep working.

The roof itself was bland. The whole thing was flat and made of concrete. Empty, except for concrete structures that were scattered randomly over the pavement. They didn’t seem to serve any purpose except to provide some shade from the sun.

The only thing somewhat interesting about the roof was the view, and even then it wasn’t much. The ocean was mostly still, calm, and a dull grey. It was a better view than he had in the closet, but barely.

The actual labor of heaving panels into position and dealing with their wiring was the only thing that kept him from quitting the project altogether.

On the third day, his patience began to run short.

It was one of those mornings where he was impossible to wake. Mei had knocked at his door for almost ten minutes before she called him through his communicator. The shrill beeping made his subconscious think “Omnic.” It was irrational and stupid, but he found himself with a loaded scrap gun pointed at a terrified Mei.

Shit.

The work that day wasn’t easy. They’d finished about half the roof and they needed to unload another crate of panels. Which meant heavy lifting. Which meant Roadhog.

To make matters worse, the delivery had occurred while Roadhog was still sleeping. The pilot had dropped it on the roof and left. The crate was sitting on top of one of the concrete pillars high above the roof. They needed a ladder to access it. Moving the panels was near-impossible.

Even the crate was a disaster. Practically falling apart at the seams, the thing was far from structurally sound.

“I think it might collapse!” said Mei, “We will need to get them down quickly. Or-” she pulled out some sort of gun from her pocket, “I could try patching it with my blaster!”

Roadhog watched as a river of blue particles streamed towards the crate. Ice spread across the gaps.

“I think that will hold it together for a couple hours maybe,” Mei guessed. She shuffled her feet, “Will you be able to unload them all?”

Roadhog stared up the ladder. There were 25 panels. He had to take them down one at a time if he didn’t want to fall.  

He shrugged.

Mei nodded sensibly. “Okay. I will wait here. Let me know if I can do anything to help you out.”

Roadhog started up the ladder.

An hour later, and the sun was beating down on his back. It wasn’t as bad as some days in Junkertown, but it was enough to make him sweat. The leather of his mask was itching at his skin.

Mei had been chattering his ear off about whatever entered her head.

“Snowball was built for the cold, so that’s why he’s not out here right now.”

“I wonder if Winston knows about the view up here! Probably. He lived here alone for a long time after all!”

“Whew! It’s almost warm enough for me to take off my parka! Maybe in a few minutes.”

“You know, I believe that when everyone changes to solar panels, it will be much easier to save our planet!”

“Watch out! Wow! That was a close one.”

Roadhog growled and readjusted his grip.

He was used to being jabbered at, but not by someone so damn optimistic. It was almost enough to make him want to drop his panel on top of her. She was close enough. It wouldn’t be hard.

Roadhog planted his feet on the concrete and gently leaned the panel against the pillar with the others. He took a moment to rest. Mei was still talking. He didn’t care enough to listen.

A drop of water splashed on his shoulder. Sweat? No. He looked up.

The ice that held the crate together was see through now. It had been beneath the hot sun for over an hour, melting. Roadhog guessed that it could break any minute now.

He started back up the ladder. He wasn’t worried about the panels. He had shifted them so they wouldn’t fall even if the crate collapsed. It wasn’t worth adding another layer of ice. Waste of amo.

As he reached the top of the ladder, the wooden crate creaked.

Splintered.

Broke.

Fell apart.

Roadhog realized far too late that maybe he should have told Mei about the crate. Warned her maybe.

Now, as he watched the crate’s heavy wall topple off the pillar, hurtling to the concrete where Mei stood, he considered shouting out.

It was too risky. Not enough time to think. Instead, just as the wooden board disappeared from sight, he pulled out his hook and shot it at Mei, blissfully unaware.

His aim was off.

The hook shot high of her torso and wrapped itself around her neck. He didn’t have time to consider it. He yanked. Her head snapped backwards and her body followed. The panel crashed into pieces on the ground. Harmless.

Mei was saved.

Her body was lying motionless on the ground below him. His hook was draped across her neck. The roof was silent.

* * *

 

Roadhog was alone on the rooftop. He had carried Mei to the medbay. Angel had taken over. Simple. Nothing hard about it.

He thought about going back to his bunk but somehow, he’d ended up back on the roof. Apparently, he wanted to finish his job. So he did.

Two, three, five, eight hours passed by like they were nothing. The solar panels were set up. It was a difficult thing to hold a panel in place while he used his one free hand to bolt it in, but there were other things that were more difficult. Like aiming his hook correctly, he’d been doing it for years. Like waking up in the morning when someone knocked on his door. Like a lot of things.

Roadhog finished securing the last panel just as the sun began to sink towards the sea. He still needed to wire them. He could do that. He could do that in a minute.

Roadhog stood between the panels and watched the sun through his goggles.

Behind him, someone coughed. He recognized it as the medic. Probably wanted to chew him out for being reckless. At the very least, Angel wanted his attention. 

He didn't want to give it to her.

She spoke to him anyway. “Mei’s resting. Her throat was almost crushed. If she wasn’t wearing her parka, it would have been.” The accusation in her tone was thinly veiled.

Roadhog said nothing.

“You saw the crate falling apart, didn’t you?” 

The sun was almost grey. A burning ball of grey fire.

“You could have said something. Told her. Instead you just kept going and then used your _weapon_  to-” Her voice cut off. Roadhog could hear her blood boiling from where he stood.

“You could have prevented this. She could have died. You could have stopped it,” the doctor took a sharp step forward, “But you. Didn’t. Care.”

Roadhog wondered why she was talking to him. What was she trying to do?

“Ever since that botched mission a month ago, I’ve been keeping an eye on you, and here is what I have learned: You spend all of your time alone or with that rat. You don’t speak to anyone. You don’t train with anyone. On missions, all you can do is destroy. You accomplish nothing else.”

Roadhog felt a small flame of anger float through his chest.

“Yet,” the medic continued, “When something like this happens, when a teammate gets hurt and it’s directly your fault, you get away free. Winston thinks you were saving her!" She sounds baffled at the thought. "He refuses to punish you without an act of deliberate violence.”

Ah. So that’s what she was trying to do. Make him lash out. Get him off of missions maybe. Roadhog clenched his jaw. She wasn’t going to get him.

“Well, Pig _,_ my name may be Mercy, but that does not mean I’m forgiving. Not to known murderers who shouldn’t be here to begin with. Not to criminals who _attack_ teammates. Not to beings of destruction who would willingly let an Omnic die if it were less work. Do you hear me, _Mako_?”

Roadhog gritted his teeth and said nothing. He won’t spare her a glance. She’s pissed and couldn’t do a thing about it and Roadhog knew it. She knew he did. It was only a matter of time before she gave up. She couldn’t touch him.

He heard the sound of heels clicking closer, and before he could react, Mercy’s staff swung at his skull. The force was enough to snap his neck to the side along with the mask from his face. It landed behind him with a dull thud.

Roadhog slowly straightened his neck. He could hear Mercy gasp, but all he could see was the sudden vibrant blue of the sea and the reflecting colors of the sun as it set. It had been a long time since Roadhog had seen the sun without tinted goggles.

It’s almost red.

He took a breath in.

The mustiness of his filters were gone and he could _smell._ It’s crisp and clean and salty.

 _‘It’s...nice,’_ Mako thinks, even as his throat begins to tighten and his vision blurs, _‘It’s…’_ Gone.

Even as he fell, he knew that the view was technically still there, that his body was just slumping over, collapsing on him. Blood normally needed clean air to make a body run, but Roadhog wasn’t a clean body. Roadhog was an apocalypse. An apocalypse held together with chains and a dirty old gas mask with dirty filters and dirty goggles to squint through. Apocalypse was just a fancy word for an ending, and Roadhog was how it signed its name.

Roadhog had been ending for a long long time.

He lands on his back. He couldn’t breathe anymore. He was distantly aware of Mercy saying something, and the tickling sensation of her magic staff working hard at his lungs, but he wasn’t interested in that.

Instead, he rolled onto his stomach and blindly fumbled the concrete for his mask. Mercy wasn’t made for fighting, not like he was. It shouldn’t have gone far.

As his fingers brushed against leather, the tickling magic stopped and the talking did too. Roadhog didn’t know if it’s because Mercy gave up on him or because his body did.

He smashed the mask to his face and he breathes again. It’s a familiar must. He realized that it smells like Australia. He hadn’t ever realized. Except now, amidst the dust and thick haze, there’s just a hint of salt. He wondered how long it would be for him to stop noticing it.

He’s sure that his eyes are red, too red to see through. Keeping one hand firmly on his mask, he carefully shifted his body into a sitting position.

A hot lick of pain burned across his shoulders like a whip pushing him down. He ignored it and reached for his hogdrogen (always have everything you need) but a chilled hand on his shoulder stopped him. Mercy. It had to be.

A moment or two, and the icicle fingers delicately press a canister into the palm of his hand. 

Habit took over and his eyes see yellow. The gas filled his lungs and he coughed. His lungs were aching, but they worked.

Now, Roadhog can see the outline of the rooftop. The solar panels were like rectangular totems at either side. He waited until he could make out the grey ocean rolling gently in the distance. If he squinted he could make out the sun in the distance. It wasn’t red anymore.

He scanned the roof for a moment, only to confirm what he already knew: Mercy had left. Too much for her to deal with, not that Roadhog blamed her. He would've made a break for I first chance he got. He had enough experiences with fallout.

Alone, he fixed his mask so he wouldn’t have to hold it in place. It’s loose and not the most comfortable it’s ever been, but Roadhog was breathing again. He’ll be able to fix it soon enough. He stood to leave.

He turned and Mercy was standing there, as pale as a corpse and just as haunting.

“Those scars...” she said, and she does say it out loud, but Roadhog could only hear a whisper of her voice slip through his mask, “And you collapsed so quickly…”

He wondered if she was going to pity him. Or maybe she’ll use it against him. Maybe report the whole thing to Winston, get him kicked off the team for good. She had to want to. It'd be too easy.

Mercy’s shoulders are hunched and her arms are crossed. She wasn't looking at him. Her eyebrows were furrowed as if she hadn't already solved the puzzle. There wasn't that much to it. Everyone and their uncle knew what happened in the outback.

“How do you eat?” she asked, and Roadhog wasn’t expecting it.

He pointed at the discarded hogdrogen canister. It’s answer enough. She'd seen what it dis. She could guess the rest of it. Only Roadhog had to know the specifics.

“Hm.” And the angel’s spine straightened. Her eyes, Roadhog guessed (his vision was still blurry and she’s standing a little ways away), locked onto his. “This doesn’t change anything. You clearly know how to care for yourself. I apologize for my outburst and that I caused that to happen,”

Roadhog could feel her wince.

“-but there’s no excuse for your lack of communication. When your mask is on, you can still speak. Communicating with your team is the difference between a failed mission and one that succeeds.”

And Roadhog couldn’t help himself. Aching lungs be damned, he snorted.

Her reaction was a seething glare. He bet she studied Symmetra’s.

“You think I’m joking? Look at what just happened! You did not communicate to me the entirety of your condition and I could’ve killed you just now! What if this had been during a mission?”

Roadhog could picture it. One unlucky (or lucky) blow, and he’s a pile of rubble on the ground, not even good enough for scrapping. It’s not as if he’d never thought of it before. But Junkrat would be there. He knew enough to save his hide. Or at least Roadhog assumed he did. That he would, even.

“What if your mask had been just a few inches further away? What if you were all out of that chemical? You use it enough during missions. My abilities clearly aren’t enough to fix whatever’s wrong with you. It is stupid. Being stupid is a dumb reason for someone to get killed.”

Roadhog would argue that going on a mission was a dumb reason to get yourself killed. Then again, he lived with Junkrat for more than a year. He didn’t have much room to talk.

Mercy, seemingly finished, pulled out a comm-pad and began typing rapidly into it. After a few moments, she glanced back up at him.

“I’m updating your medical file. I’ll need a sample of that chemical that you keep with you. I’m also putting a flag on your agent file that you shouldn’t be put on solo or partner work. It will stay there until you can communicate with your team.” The medic crossed her arms. “I think it’s more than fair.”

Roadhog breathed in slowly and carefully nodded. If Mercy was surprised, she hid it well. Or maybe Roadhog just couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.

“Well,” she said, an air of finality in her voice, “I suppose that will be all. I’ll keep tabs on you and as soon as I see preventable problems prevented-” She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to.

Roadhog waited. Mercy gave a sharp nod and began to walk away.

“Hey,” Roadhog growled, refusing to let any weakness leak into his tone, “Will she get better?”

Mercy stopped at the mouth of the elevator. She sent a curious look over her shoulder.

“Yes,” said the medic decidedly, “She will be fine. Give her a couple of days to recover." She stepped into the elevator and turned around to face him. She seemed to be almost puzzled. "Thank you for your concern, Roadhog.”

With that, she left Roadhog alone on the rooftop.

Alone on the rooftop.

Alone on the rooftop.

Behind him, the sun was grey and dusty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate ending:  
> About two minutes pass before a voice shouts out behind him.  
> "Roadie! There you are! I've been lookin' all over! Who knew we had a roof?? I was checkin' for ya in the Medbay and this chick in a bleedin' parka (A PARKA!) tells me you'd gone and helped her out with bloody solar panels! So I climb the damn wall and here you are! How come you can talk so damn much and still be keepin' secrets from me? Next thing I know yer gonna start avoidin' me or somethin'! Couldja imagine?? Crazy!"  
> Roadhog tipped his head back and laughed louder than he had in years.
> 
> Eh. I dunno.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading! 
> 
> Funny story about why it's late: I was chilling with my dad out on these cliffs by where we live, and my uncle shows up and pushes him off the ledge! He totally died and my uncle tried to convince me that I was the reason he died (because I invited him). So I ran away to the jungle and these two hippies helped me out for a few years and there was no wifi. then an old friend shows up and she tells me my uncle took over our neighborhood watch committee and everything was terrible. So I told her to just have the whole neighborhood come live in the woods with the hippies and it'd be fine. And they all lived happily ever after. And then I got wifi. 
> 
> Let me now if you have any comments, questions, or critiques! I love to hear from you guys! (Also spelling errors? I accidentally wrote the whole thing in present tense first so...There might be spelling errors.)


	5. Reaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaper wants a job done.

Mei recovered from the failed hook grab well over a month ago. Roadhog only realized this when she near-body slammed him with a hug in the lab. Junkrat had been mid-rant about the potential profit in selling explosive fruit when something charged into his side. It was confusing. And warm.

_Huh._

“You finished the panels!” Mei squeed, “I’m so happy! It’s beautiful!”

Behind her, Snowball chirped and somersaulted midair. Junkrat’s trigger finger twitched. Symmetra, watching all of this from her lab table, seemed to evaluate the situation before abandoning her project and quickly exiting the room. Roadhog was now alone with Junkrat, a workstation full of live explosions and weapons, and an overjoyed parka without a sense of self-preservation.

“Where the hell’d you come from?” Junkrat was eyeing her the same way he eyed one of his mines when it didn’t go off on time. One eyebrow was quirked up while the other eye worked independently to scan the device in question.

Mei stepped away from Roadhog, clasping her gloved hands together at her chest. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to shock you!”

“Sure you didn’t Frosty!” Junkrat’s arms waved in the air sarcastically. “Betcha just thought you were bein’ friendly or somethin’, that it? Just bein’ all neighborly and all that! Thought it’d be funny! Or I know! You just mistook Roadie here for the rhino guy, dintcha? Go ahead! Tell your story, shiela, I’ve heard every excuse in the book!” Junkrat waited, arms crossed.

“Oh, right! A little while ago, Mr. Roadhog was helping-”

Junkrat barked out a sharp laugh. “I didn’t realize you was a jokester Frosty! You hitcha head on your last mission or somethin? ‘Cause Roadie?? Helpin’ someone?” He jabbed a sharp elbow into Roadhog’s ribs at the joke.”Like HELL!”

“Actually,” Mei said, fidgeting with her glasses, “He _did_ help me. A few weeks ago he installed the solar panels on the roof?” Roadhog groaned internally. “Hasn’t he... told you about them?”

Junkrat looked at Roadhog. Then he looked at Mei. Then Roadhog again. Then Mei. Roadhog. Mei. Roadhog. Mei.

“No,” he finally growled at Mei, “He didn’t.”  

“Oh,” said Mei. Snowball whirred over her shoulder. Roadhog scratched at his arm. Junkrat fumed.

“Oh!” said Mei. Roadhog was beginning to wonder if she knew any other way to start a sentence. “Did you-er...hear that?”

“What?’

“You missed it! It was - er - Winston! Yes, Winston outside in the hall! Calling my name! He probably wants me to...debrief! For the mission I was on before the coma! The mission I was on a month ago! Yes! I knew I should have done it before! I better go!” Mei backed towards the doors slowly and carefully and not at all awkwardly. “Thank you again Roadhog! Goodbye!”

Roadhog winced at the sound of the doors snapping shut behind her. Junkrat continued to stare at him.

“So,” Junkrat started slowly, which was a very un-Junkrat thing to do, “You’re, what, helpin’ people now?”

Roadhog shrugged. Helping was a strong word.

Something in Junkrat’s eyes seemed to be shifting, like he was reevaluating something he knew to be true. Roadhog could see the levers clicking into place, the grinding gears slipping and sliding and clanging about until the machine that was Junkrat’s mind was running again. Then a sharp and wild smile split across his face.

“I knew it!” he shouted triumphantly, “All this hero business is changin’ ya! Makin’ you go soft, huh?! Like a disease, it’s gonna choke the real bits a you out until you’re nothin left but a real-live pig for the people! Just rolling around in these slums and tellin’ yourself you’re doin’ some sorta good!” Junkrat _tsk_ ed, shaking his head sadly. “I tell ya, Hoggers, I can only help with that kinda thing so much! Month or two more, and you just wait! You’re gonna wish we’da split this place when we’d hadda chance tah! They’re gonna make you think you _don’t_ need that mask ya know! Then one day you’ll take it off, and BAM!” He smacked his hands together for emphasis. “You’re bacon! Just like that! Jeez-US Piggie, you’re a goner already! I tell ya we shoulda never even came here!”

Roadhog supposed Junkrat had a point. Before coming here, he wouldn’t have given half a damn to see Mei up and walking around, but now…

Now it felt warm. There was something in his stomach that wasn’t hunger and it reminded him suspiciously of Mako. And this wasn’t the first time either. No, the first time must have been with Pharah and her suit. Or no. Maybe the Omnic? Not killing him had been fairly Mako-ish too. Or had it been all that time ago with the cowboy…?

No. That was all wrong. If Roadhog was being honest, the kind of honest he hadn’t been in over a decade, the first flash of Mako had been in that bar in the middle of Junkertown. Just Hating and Hating and Hating until just a brief flash of some lying junker about to get beat up in the bar and hearing the nerve of the Queen’s flunky, think he knew all of who Roadhog was...

But enough about that. There was time for that later. Right now something was beeping. And it wasn’t one of Junkrat’s bombs.

“Well, well, well,” Junkrat grinned, his communicator in hand,  “Looks like the do-gooders need us again, eh Hog? Can’t seem to manage more’n a coupl’a minutes without us! Suppose we should stick around for just this one last mission now, shouldn’t we? Better run! Lesgo!”

And so they went on that one last mission.

And that one last mission lasted for almost a week.

And Junkrat blew up six separate warehouses.

Six.

And Roadhog didn’t think about going soft or whatever sort of helping Junkrat thought he was doing. He just thought about how much of a hellscape Russia was in winter. Not as bad as the outback in summer, in the real thick of it when it feels like your skin is stretched like tight leather over your bones and smiling makes your lips split and peel and bleed, but still. There was hell, and then there was Russia in winter.

They came back to the base and Junkrat had completely forgotten any ideas he had about leaving the hero business for exploding fruit stands or whatever the hell he’d been talking about. Not that Roadhog was surprised. He wasn’t surprised. He was cold. The chill of a weeklong mission of doing nothing in Russia had made his heart start pumping melted snow. Or something. Hypothermia maybe. Unimportant.

Maybe if he had a jacket that actually fit him. Maybe if it were a warm jacket.

“Heya Roadie! Why dontcha go’n grab us some snacks, will ya? I’m starved! Been nearly decades since I’da meal in my stomach! Come on now! Get us some lunch!”

Roadhog pulled himself out of his thoughts and lumbered out of the lab. Snacks.

Most of the heroes were off base. A handful were dealing with missions and some were still in Russia tying up loose ends (Like six blown up warehouses). The kitchen was empty. The afternoon sun made the room practically glow with warmth. It was quiet. Warm. Peaceful. Roadhog spent a full minute just standing in the center of it all.

It had been so abnormally peaceful and calm that, looking back on it, he shouldn’t have been so surprised when every light in the base shut off.

The security window grates activated and locked into place, shutting the sun away and sending the room into chilled darkness. The sound of the outside locks sliding into place followed. The emergency systems had been activated, but the lights should still be on. The system should be giving a situation report. There should be a siren, an alert on his communicator. Something was most definitely wrong. Which meant that trouble had arrived at the base.

Because how dare he have more than a minute to himself?

Roadhog sighed, patted the cold kitchen counter goodbye, and went to go find trouble.

“Hey there,” grinned a woman adorned in purple. She waved cheekily. “Long time no see, eh?”

Looks like he found it.

“Oh please, Piggie, don’t tell me you don’t remember me! I like to think I stand out from the crowd after all.”

Right. Roadhog remembered her. She was one of those...people. Bad people. He probably should be shooting her.

“Hey, relax _chanchito!_ I got your number. No need to hold up the goody two shoes act around me. You helped me once already, alright? Showed me where all the little heroes were hiding? I owe you.”

Helped her. Right. That was an accident that he’d been severely scolded for. For a scientist with a mission of peace, Winston could be almost intimidating when he wanted to be.  

“The name’s Sombra by the way,” she flicked her fingers distractedly at her side, almost like she was typing some invisible keyboard, “Nice to officially meet you-” She smiled a sharp smile as she stuck out a metal-clad hand to shake. “ _-Mako_.”

Roadhog blinked. And now his gun was drawn.

“Hey hey! Sorry, _cerdito_ , I didn’t realize you were going to be so… _sensitive_ about it.” If her tone didn’t make her seem ingenuine, the brazen grin on her face did the job. “Look, I’ll leave you alone, if you want, no worries! I just thought you might be... interested in a little job _mis_ _amigos y yo_ dug up. We could really use a guy like you on a job like this. Would you hear me out?”

Roadhog waited.

“What? Is that so much to ask between friends like us? Friends who _don’t_ shoot each other?” She glanced pointedly at the muzzle of Roadhog’s gun.

Roadhog waited.

“Fine, alright, _ugh,”_ Sombra rolled her eyes, “Sorry I called you by your old name! Are we good now? Calmed down?” She smiled hopefully. “Ready to listen?”

Roadhog waited.

“So.” A new voice came from the dark of the hallway. “You found him.”

Great. That’s just what Roadhog needed right now. More costumed freaks who knew who he was.

“ _Oye_ , one-punch-man, why don’t you make a little noise before you walk into a room, eh?! _Ay dios mio_ ,” Sombra leaned past the scrap gun and whispered loudly to Roadhog, “Between you and me, _chancho_ , I think he just likes being overdramatic.”

The newcomer entered the room a sliver at a time. First, there was only a glint of metal. Then a golden gauntlet shined unnaturally in the dark of the hallway, floating forward like it was being pulled by an invisible string. The shadows surrounding it took the shape of a man. Instead of a  shirt there lay tattoos, bold white against the man’s hard oak skin. They were like bones, like armor.

Sombra spun around. “Way to join the party, boss-man.” The man didn’t acknowledge her, but she continued as if he had. “I was just... _chatting_ with my friend Roadhog here.” Her voice sounded needlessly artificial. Almost like she was reading from a script.

The man (One-punch-man? Cheesy, but Roadhog wouldn’t be surprised with some of the names floating around Overwatch.) seemed to consider Roadhog for a moment before he spoke.

“You said this man was your friend.” His eyes locked on the scrap gun. “Were you being optimistic? Or perhaps this one just knows you well enough to be on guard?”

“Oh, what? This?” She glanced over her shoulder at Roadhog, who was still pointing his gun, “This is just a slight...negotiation, we’re all good now, right _Roadhog_?” Sombra shot him a look.

Roadhog considered his options. He could shoot her. It probably wouldn’t kill her. And it’d be so _so_ satisfying. It might even be enough to scare them off. Not to mention, he knew that the omnic at least was still on base. If he floated in to see Roadhog having a casual conversation with these guys.... Overwatch didn’t trust him much to begin with. If he dropped his gun it’d look suspicious. 

On the other hand, he didn’t know what they were here for yet. Something to do with him, maybe. Besides, since when did Roadhog care what Overwatch thought? He and Junkrat could leave whenever they wanted. They didn’t need Overwatch.

He dropped the gun to his side.

“See? No problems here.” Sombra punched him somewhat jokingly on the shoulder. “Roadhog and I go way back.

“Really?” The man with the metal fist looked decidedly unimpressed. He turned suddenly to Roadhog. “Do you really see yourself as our ally, Roadhog? Or are you just too cowardly to attack?”

Roadhog said nothing.

“Ha! You thought that goading him would get you anywhere? No dice, man. Roadhog here, he isn’t exactly the talking type. Lucky for you, _I am_.” Sombra jabbed a sharp hand in the air, summoning a series of files and news headlines out of nowhere. Among them, Roadhog spotted his and Junkrat’s mug shots and wanted posters. He couldn’t read the headlines clearly, but he could guess their contents. “You’re familiar with his resume, of course.” She glanced at Roadhog. “We wouldn’t be here otherwise. Helping us destroy that payload? Setting a bomb on the landing deck here? And it looks like- a-ha!” Sombra pulled a file up into the air. A medical report. “It looks like you’ve gotten gutsy! A hook around the neck of a teammate? I thought Junkrat was supposed the crazy one!” Sombra tapped the air again, sending the report to oruby around her with the other files.

“Oh?” The man’s eyes flashed like steel. “The climatologist?”  

Roadhog’s fist curled, but he didn’t make a move. Neither stranger noticed.

“Bingo boss-man. Noticed she hasn’t been interrupting your moves recently? You’re smarter than you look! Anyways, we’ve seen you making things difficult on this end, and I for one, am impressed. We were happy to let you do your work, but as I mentioned…” Sombra glanced at the other man. For a moment, something in her expression made her look nervous, but it disappeared quickly. “Something big has come up. We don’t have much time to explain, but we’d like you and your partner to be in on it. Both of your, shall we say, _specialties_ will be useful. All we can tell you is that it will be big and that it will be… well worth your while.” She made a quick motion in the air, almost like she was snapping an invisible pencil in half, and all the files and headlines floating in the air disappeared with a purple shimmer.

“So?” Sombra grinned toothily. “You in, _amigo_?”

At her side, the man’s gauntlet clanked and the sound echoed in the dark hall.

* * *

 

Technically, Reaper had an office. A large one. With a window. His was the only office with a window in Talon’s headquarters. They thought that having the only room with a view in the underground base was some sort of incentive, some sort of gift, for the work he did. Reaper didn’t need incentive to do his job. He enjoyed it. All of it. Revelled in it. He didn’t need a window. In fact, he avoided it, especially during the day. At least when it was night, he could pretend it wasn’t there. When the sun was out, he could turn on other lights to hide the rays, but he couldn’t avoid the patches of heat that came from the sunlight. It would practically scorch against his skin.

(The sun didn’t always burn so hotly. He used to run through it. Work with it. He laughed at others, ready to quit after a few minutes in the desert heat. A lesson he learned in The Program: If you want to win something, take them outside at noon when the sun is high and the skies are clear. Other people can’t stand it. Most other people.)

So yes, Reaper technically had an office. But even the lowest ranked talon member knew that if you were looking for Reaper, check the cells. Follow the scent of decay down the cement stairs. If you start seeing little specks of black sand drifting through the air, you’ll know you’re close.

The cells were located in the bottom-most section of the base. Seventeen flights down. The elevators only worked for eight. The pipes started leaking through the walls at ten. The most health conscious members (as few as they were) were grateful for the mandatory masks that went with their uniforms. It probably didn’t help any, but it was the security that mattered.

There were only twelve cells total on base, and all on the same floor. Talon had never needed more than that. Two rows of six. Perfect cubes of grey cement. There was a rumour that the cells had withstood the power of Winston’s scarlet rage, once. There was another rumour that there was no need to disarm prisoners. It was simple enough to lock the door and wait them out. Let them starve. Let them bruise themselves against their walls. Let them rot. There was no way out of a cube seventeen stories beneath the earth. The only way out is through the door.

There was another rumour about the cells. One that was shated in hushed tones only when soldiers were miles away from the base, away from its now sole occupant. There was a  rumour that Reaper had once been a prisoner in the cells. The rumour that Reaper let his body rot away until there was nothing left but cold bones. The rumour that Talon would not let even death free the cells’ prisoners. The rumour that Reaper was born of the cells, and if the time ever came, Reaper would die inside them.

Rumours aside, when they recruited Junkrat and Roadhog, they brought them to see Reaper. And Reaper was in the cells.

“This mission is top priority,” Doomfist’s voice was carrying down the stairs. “And top secret as well. You will be briefed down here of the details and what role you will play. You will not know everything pertaining to the mission. You will know only what is necessary. You will be expected to memorize everything you hear. This discussion will not be repeated.”

Reaper was waiting.

At the end of the hall of cells, his back against the wall, it was unclear whether Reaper was standing, leaning against the wall, or even floating in the air. At the edges of his shoulders and mask, ashy flakes of black matter skittered off him and then reattached, making his entire figure look blurry. There was a single light bulb in the center of the hall that flickered. The only sound was the steady clicking of a leak from the ceiling _drip, drip, dripping,_ into the cold ground. All else was still and quiet.

Enter Junkrat.

“Are you guys kiddin’ me with these stairs!? Think you woulda installed one a’them old person’s stair lifts or somethin’ for us crippled folks! And with all these puddles and moldy walls, Christ! I’m gonna hafta make Roadhog carry me back! How do you expect me tah cope in an unsuitable working envir- JEEZUS! You blokes keep GHOSTS down here?! What kind of criminals are you!”

He had seen Junkrat during missions before, but the explosive-driven freak had normally been too concerned with blowing up buildings to focus on any individuals. He was, while rather versatile, fairly typical. While he was certainly slippery, a Talon soldier could achieve a similar level of destruction by strapping themselves with a bomb vest and jumping on a grenade.

Now Roadhog was someone they could make use of. (Or rather, Mako.)

It was hard to miss Roadhog’s massive silhouette during a fight. For someone so clearly capable of being in the center of a fight, Overwatch seemed keen on keeping him to the alleyways, picking off soldiers and agents from the side. With the exception of the payload in Mexico, neither of them appeared during battles of any real worth.

Considering their records and where they stood now, this was a surprisingly smart move made by Overwatch.

“So? Goldy-hand here says you’re the mission leader or whatever, ain’tcha? Get on with it already! What do you want us for and more importantly,” The man lifted a crazed eyebrow, a greedy glint in his eye. “What’s the pay off?”

Reaper told them.

Junkrat’s eyes became impossibly large.

“...how much?”

Reaper told them again.

And Junkrat was speechless.

“Now,” growled Reaper, “I assume neither of you have any problems with killing?”

Roadhog said nothing. Junkrat was still seeing dollar signs. Reaper was not a patient man.

He yanked out his rifle and shot straight up. The boom ricocheted in his ears and a shower of cement dust rained down from the ceiling. Doomfist winced at the sound. Sombra shouted a curse in Spanish.

Junkrat continued to drool, completely unphased.

Reaper was...confused. That usually worked.

Roadhog brought one mammoth-sized hand to his shoulder, just above his over vest, and pointedly tapped twice. Reaper examined Junkrat. Sure enough, hanging from the scrawny man’s own shoulders were bundles of bright yellow grenades, more than one of which seemed a bad jostle away from losing their pins.

So maybe an explosion wouldn’t catch the attention of these two. He’d have to use a more drastic measure.

“...”

”...hey.”

Junkrat immediately straightened up and flung up a rigid salute.

“Oh yea, Mr. Reaper-man-sir! You say the word and I’ll see to it personally that it’s done! You got it! No questions asked! I’ll do whatever you got in store! Absolutely! You want Goldy and Purple-y gone? All you gotta do is say the word, sir! I’ll be on it faster than a-”

“Shut. Up.” Reaper was going to get a headache.

“Yessir!” Junkrat mimed zipping his mouth shut, locking it with a key, and then opening his mouth to swallow it. Then: “You got it! You won’t hear one more peep out of me! No sirree! Not one!”

Reaper now had a headache.

This mission was going to be the death of him.

He’d better get it over with. He turned to the silent mountain loaming to the side.

“Roadhog,” he drawled out. The mission would depend entirely on the man’s response. “I need a favor.”

Roadhog was listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Crazy story. Like three months ago, my dad got hired to basically manage this real old hotel for the winter or something, and he was all over it 'cause he thought no one would come and check in so he'd basically have an entire winter to work on writing his book. Anyway, we were there all winter, and my dad basically went insane  
> But what was cool is that there was this huge freakin' hedge maze on the property, so I'd spend a bunch of time getting lost in that. Then my dad went like for real crazy and tried to attack us with an axe, but I'm not sure where he got it, and he chased me out in the maze and I think I lost him, but I'm still not sure. I've been running for a few weeks. I don't know where in the maze I am. Help. It's chilly out. 
> 
> Oh. And there wasn't any wifi.
> 
> Let me know if you see any misspells or anything. I do appreciate that stuff. Also, doesn't it bother you to see it? It bothers the crap outta me. Unless it's a published book, then I like to laugh at it.


End file.
